The Pale Circus

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2026-08-22 00:29:43 -

The Pale Circus

The rain fell in sheets, cold and grey, against the tin roof of the stable. It drummed a relentless rhythm, a heartbeat of rust and water. I sat in the corner, my back against the hay. The smell was sharp. Dust. Mold. The old sweat of horses long gone. My right hand rested on my knee. It was still. Too still. "Is it done?" my father asked. His voice was low. A rasp, like dry leaves scraping...

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