The Pale Door
The rain has not stopped for three days, a relentless, cold finger tapping against the leaded glass of the chapel window, blurring the world outside into a smear of grey mud and dying leaves. You sit in the back pew, your hands folded in your lap, the wood of the bench biting into your skin with a sharp, familiar pain that serves as a tether to your waking mind. You are here to find the truth,...
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