The Pale Exile
The loaf was still warm, the crust cracking under the pressure of Norah Kilbride’s fingers, a sound like a small bone breaking in the quiet alley. She stood in the rain-slicked gutter, twelve years old and shivering, watching the steam rise from the stolen bread as it mingled with the fog that clung to the brickwork of the tenement. In the glass of the shop window behind her, a figure stood. It...
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