The Pale Bridge
The bridge over the River Oak was not merely a structure of stone and iron; it was a membrane, a breathing skin stretched tight over the town’s secret, shimmering with an oily iridescence that seemed to pulse in the twilight. Elias, twelve years old and sharp-eyed, stood on the south bank, his fingers drumming a frantic rhythm against his knee, his heart a trapped bird battering against his...
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