The Pale Verdict
The water in the kettle screamed, a thin, high-pitched shriek that cut through the heavy, metallic tang of the fog clinging to the porch railings, and I held the tincture bottle with hands that had been shaking since dawn, my fingers white-knuckled around the glass as I measured out the precise, bitter dose for Martha. The mist was thick today, a pale, opaque curtain that smelled of sulfur and...
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