The Pale Path
The paper sat on the kitchen table, its edges curling slightly in the dry morning air. It was a standard Form 14-B, Deportation Order, the ink black and sharp against the stark white of the official letterhead. Elias Thorne stared at it, his coffee growing cold in the mug beside his hand. The dream had come again. White ash, thick and silent, settling over the toes of his boots, burying him up...
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