The Pale Path
The border is not a line on a map. It is a wound in the earth, stitched shut by wire and silence. You have walked it for twenty years, your boots worn thin over the same gravel, your spine curved by the weight of a badge you no longer wish to wear. At forty-two, you are Elias Thorne, and you are tired. Not in the way of a man who has slept poorly, but in the way of a stone that has been ground...
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