The Pale Bridge
Mara sat on the cold stone steps of the chapel, her fingers laced tight in her lap, waiting for the fog to thin. The mist was not merely weather; it was a living thing, a pale and suffocating veil that swallowed the world beyond the churchyard wall. It had been there for three days, or perhaps three weeks. Time had lost its rigid architecture, dissolving into a gray, fluid medium where past and...
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