The Pale Door
The woolen cloak has begun to rot from the inside out. You feel it first as a dampness against your shoulder, a cold that does not come from the wind but from the fabric itself, as if the garment has developed a fever. It is a heavy thing, this cloak, woven from the coarse fleece of the northern sheep, dyed in a shade of indigo that has long since faded to the color of a bruise. It was your...
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