The Pale Dance
The rain has not stopped for three days, a grey, unceasing curtain that blurs the line between the wet cobblestones of the courtyard and the sky, turning the world into a single, damp, breathing entity that feels less like a place and more like a memory slowly dissolving in water. You stand at the head of the watchtower, your hands resting on the cold iron of the railing, feeling the tremor in...
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