The Pale Path
The cart wheels groaned against the cobblestones, a rhythmic, grinding protest that seemed to echo in my own hollowed-out chest. I was driving a load of flour sacks, white and heavy, toward the mill on the north ridge, but my hands were trembling so violently that the reins slipped twice, and the horse, a old mare named Bess, shied away from the dust. The town of Oakhaven lay behind me, a...
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