The Pale Door

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2026-08-23 12:22:14 -

The Pale Door

The dream was always the same, a white stag caught in a tangle of iron thorns, its antlers bleeding rust into the dark soil. Eamon woke with the taste of copper in his mouth, his hands already aching with the familiar, grinding protest of arthritis that had begun to steal his strength one joint at a time. He was forty-five, a stonemason of the old school, and the final arch of St. Jude’s...

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