The Pale Fracture
The ice on the lake does not melt in the spring. It thickens. You remember this first in a dream, a recurring one, where the surface of Miller’s Lake is not water but a sheet of white glass, smooth and unbroken. You walk upon it. Your boots do not sink. The air is cold enough to crack your lips, but you are warm inside, wrapped in the heavy wool of your mother’s old shawl. You are walking...
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