The Pale Protocol
The iron held three hundred and twelve pounds of coal, a weight I had hauled up the cellar stairs since the autumn equinox. I counted the shovels as I stacked them against the wall, one, two, three, each rusted flake proof of the damp that crept into the bones of this house. My hands were raw, the skin splitting at the knuckles, a familiar pain that I welcomed as proof of effort. Outside, the...
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