The Pale Path
The mud of the Appalachian foothills is not merely wet; it is a thick, sucking clay that grabs at your boots with the desperate, clinging tenacity of a grave, pulling you down into the earth as if the ground itself has developed a hunger for your weight. You stand alone, your breath pluming in the freezing air of 1893, staring at the pale path that winds through the black forest, a ribbon of...
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