The Pale Bridge
The air in the cellar was thick, tasting of wet limestone and the sharp, metallic tang of old iron. It did not smell like earth, though it was buried beneath it, but rather like the inside of a closed book, pressed flat and waiting to be read. Margaret sat on a wooden crate that had once held apples, her knees drawn up to her chest, her hands wrapped around a ceramic mug that held no tea, only...
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