The Pale Bridge
"You’re going to sign it." Thomas’s voice was low, a rough scrape of gravel under the silence of the kitchen. He did not look at you. He looked at the table, at the cold tea, at the way the light from the window cut a sharp, pale line across the wood. You stood by the counter, your hand resting on the edge, fingers white with the effort of keeping still. The bridge was calling. You could feel...
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