The Pale Dance

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2026-08-21 12:09:42 -

The Pale Dance

The road was white with frost. Silas walked. His boots crunched on the ice. He carried a satchel. Inside, a ledger. The ink was dry. The numbers were final. He was a carver. Oak and ash. He made saints for chapels. He made spindles for chairs. His hands were rough. The skin was thick. The knuckles were swollen. He was fifty. He looked older. He walked toward the valley. The air was cold. It bit...

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