The Pale Path
You have always known that the heart is not a pump, but a prison, and you have spent the better part of forty years trying to pick the lock with your bare, trembling fingers. You stand now in the center of the drawing room, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and stale lavender, the silence pressing against your eardrums like a deep ocean trench. The house breathes around you, a vast,...
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