The Pale Tower

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2026-08-22 19:30:05 -

The Pale Tower

The pencil tip was splintered, a jagged shard of graphite that caught the grain of the paper as I pressed it down, and I found myself carving the same hexagonal lattice I had drawn three times that morning, the lines cutting into the wood of the desk with a friction that warmed my fingers. It was November, 1912, and the air in the Blackwood Sanatorium tasted of wet wool and coal dust, a heavy,...

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