The Pale Path
The ledger lay open on the oak desk, its pages yellowed and brittle as dried skin. You counted the hours in the inkwell, three drops of black, four of grey, a precise measure of time before the winter audits would strip your name from the payroll. The room was cold, a damp chill that seeped through the floorboards and into the soles of your boots, a cold that felt less like weather and more...
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