The Pale Path
You stand in the hall. The air is thick. It smells of wet wool and old iron. You hold the cane. It is smooth. It is cold. It is the only thing that is real. "Come in, Sergeant," the voice says. It is high. It is brittle. It comes from the shadow at the end of the room. You do not move. Your boots are heavy. The floorboards creak. They sound like breaking bones. You look at your hands. They are...
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