The Pale Shadows
You sit. The chair creaks. It is wood. It is old. The wood remembers. The wood weeps. Not tears. Sap. Dark sap. Like blood. Like wine. You are old. Your hands are dry. Your skin is paper. Thin. Torn at the edges. You wait. The room is cold. The air is still. Dust motes dance. In the light. A thin beam. From the window. You are the Sage. You know things. Things they do not want known. Things the...
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