The Pale Circus

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2026-08-22 17:08:34 -

The Pale Circus

The chisel bit into the oak, and I felt the grain give way with a sound like a dry bone snapping. My hand trembled, not from cold, though the November air in the tower was a bitter thing, but from the effort of keeping the blade steady against the rot. I was thirty-two years old, and I was scraping away the decay of a life I had built with my own hands. The Municipal Hall commission was the...

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