The Pale Letter

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2026-08-21 23:01:52 -

The Pale Letter

The feast was a wound. It bled wine and bread. It bled the smell of roasting goose and stale beer. The hall was cold. Stone walls. Thick breath. The air hung heavy with smoke. Thomas sat at the edge. He wore a coat. It was blue. Once, it had been grey. Now it was blue. The dye had soaked in. Deep. Permanent. Like a stain on the soul. He watched the others. They laughed. They drank. They threw...

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