The Pale Altar
The coat is heavy, heavier than it has any right to be for a man of your slender frame, yet you do not take it off, nor do you dare to ask why the wool feels like wet clay, why the buttons are cold and slick like the scales of a dead fish, why the collar seems to tighten around your throat with a slow, deliberate pressure that defies the thin, grey air of the moor. You are walking, though you...
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