The Pale Door
The fog in Oakhaven does not roll in; it accumulates, a heavy, wet wool that presses against the glass of the library windows until the world outside ceases to exist. You are thirty-two years old, and your hands are stained with ink that no amount of scrubbing can lift, a permanent map of your labor etched into the whorls of your fingerprints. Your brother Silas lies in the bed three rooms...
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