The Pale Bridge
Act I The bridge does not speak to those who have nothing to lose. I stood on the granite arch of the Pale Bridge, the stone slick with condensation that felt like cold sweat under my boots. The mist here in Oakhaven was not a weather event; it was a resident, a thick, grey wall that swallowed the reclamation yard of dead machines where I spent my nights stocking inventory. I was thirty years...
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