The Pale Dance
You leave the cottage door open. This is the first mistake, though you do not know it yet. The air is thin here, thin as old paper, and it carries the scent of wet moss and decay. You are running, or you are walking very fast, the distinction having blurred somewhere in the last mile of forest. Your lungs burn with a sweet, rotting heat. You are a prisoner of your own flesh, bound by a sickness...
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