The Pale Path
The wind did not howl, for howling implies a voice, a throat, a lung that has been filled with the desperate need to speak, and here, in the hollow of the world where the walls were thick as the history of sin itself, the wind merely exhaled, a long, cold, mechanical sigh that ruffled the edges of the parchment I held in my hands, trembling fingers that had once performed the delicate, precise...
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