The Pale Bridge
The letter lay on the desk, its edges yellowed and soft from handling, the ink faded to a brown that looked like dried blood. It was a notice of pension denial, stamped in red ink that seemed to bleed into the paper fibers. I held it up to the light, my hand trembling not from fear, but from the cold that seeped through the floorboards of the mill office. Outside, the wind carried the smell of...
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