The Pale Tale
Act I The air in the parish office smelled of stale dust and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bad penny. I stood before the desk, my hands clasped so tightly my knuckles turned white, while the low hum in my left ear began its familiar, irritating rise. It was a sound I had learned to live with, a domestic anomaly I attributed to the stress...
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