The Pale Exile
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, tucked between a water bill and a coupon for a local hardware store, its envelope stiff with the dampness of the Oakhaven autumn. You knew before you opened it that the seal was not the warm, inviting red of a promotion or an award, but the cold, clinical grey of a rejection. You sat at your kitchen table, the rain hammering against the windowpane in a rhythm...
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