The Pale Bridge
Forty-two years I have spent counting the threads of my own life, and only now, standing in the grey fog that has rendered the port useless since dawn, do I realize the count was never meant for me, but for the mold. I am Etienne Marchand, and I am writing this from the temple infirmary, where the boiled instruments sit cold on the steel tray, their surfaces dull with the residue of a fever...
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