The Pale Door
The snow does not fall so much as it hangs, a suspended grey curtain that blurs the horizon and swallows the sound of your own breathing, until you are walking not through a landscape but through a void that has forgotten how to end. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and your boots crunch against the frozen crust of the road that leads nowhere, a path etched into the white by the...
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