The Pale Bridge
The stone arch of the bridge did not merely span the River Ouse; it held the sky in its throat, a pale, calcified maw that swallowed the light of the morning sun. It was a structure of such immense, silent weight that even the wind seemed to hesitate before passing through its ribs, softening its voice to a whisper, as if afraid to wake the stones. For three hundred years, the bridge had stood...
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