The Pale Altar
You hold the boot in your gloved hands, the leather stiff and cold, the sole caked in red mud that is not mud but something darker, thicker, wet. It is a size nine, worn thin on the heel, the laces frayed into gray threads. You look up from the object to the man standing ten feet away in the fog, his face a smear of gray and white, his mouth open in a silent scream that you cannot hear because...
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