The Pale Exile
The ink on this page is drying unevenly, the fibers of the paper already softening as if the air itself were exhaling moisture into the wood, a subtle prelude to the dissolution that has governed our lives for two decades. I am writing this from the attic of Thorne House, the roof beams groaning with a rhythmic, wet creak that I have learned to distinguish from the wind, a sound that resembles...
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