The Pale Letter

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2026-08-23 05:56:05 -

The Pale Letter

The iron mask hangs from your neck by a leather thong, the metal cold and dull against the wool of your shirt. It is a heavy thing, three pounds of forged steel, its surface pitted by rust and the sweat of a hundred dead men. You hold it in your hands, feeling the weight of the years it has carried, the weight of the sins it has swallowed. You are Silas, and you are forty years old, and you are...

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