The Pale Door
The tremor in my left hand had become a rhythm, a metronome counting out the seconds of my remaining utility, and I watched the fingers curl and uncurl in the dim light of my room, a mechanical defect I intended to conquer with the sheer will of the spirit. I was forty years old, and the medium’s trade had begun to exact its toll, not in the vague metaphysical sense the public preferred to...
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