The Pale Tale
The frost had taken the barn first. Then the fields. Now the house. Thomas sat in the dark. He did not light the lamp. The cold was a living thing. It pressed against the glass. It seeped through the floorboards. His hands shook. He wrapped them in his coat. The wool was thin. Worn. Gray. Like his face. Like the sky outside. He was a doctor. Or he had been. Before the sickness. Before the...
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