The Pale Path

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2026-08-21 15:47:06 -

The Pale Path

The wind had teeth. They were not made of iron or bone, but of something sharper, something that cut through the wool of her coat and settled into the marrow of her left knee. Margaret did not look back. She could not. To look back was to invite the shadow to step closer, to let the cold seep deeper into the joint that ached with a rhythm like a slow, dying heartbeat. She walked. The path was...

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