The Pale Path
You have carried the fox for forty years, not in a cage or a kennel, but folded tightly against your ribs like a secret that has grown too heavy for the bone to hold, and now the weight of it is beginning to crush the air out of your lungs as you stand in the center of the square in Harrowgate, watching the leaves turn a bruised purple in the autumn wind that scours the cobblestones with a...
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