The cold is not just a temperature here; it is a texture, a grit that settles in the crevices of your knuckles and the hollows of your collar. You are standing at the edge of the precipice, or perhaps you are standing in the middle of a field, the distinction blurred by the heavy, grey fog that rolls in from the valley below. In your hands, you hold the bone. It is not a large bone, no longer...
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