The Pale Altar

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2026-08-24 08:10:55 -

The Pale Altar

The letter lay on the oak table, its seal broken, the ink still wet and smelling of iron and regret, as I held the pen that had signed my son’s departure. It was the fourteenth of November, a date I would later find etched into my memory not by the calendar but by the hollow ache in my chest where Julian had been, for twenty-four hours, my entire world. He was twelve, though he carried himself...

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