The Pale Door
The ivy in the window box was dying, its leaves curling into brittle fists against the glass. I watched it shrivel while the candles on the table flickered, the light catching the dust motes that danced in the cold air. It had been vibrant that morning, a thick, green curtain of life, but now it was brown, brittle, and silent. I did not move to water it. My hands were shaking, not from the...
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