The Faded River
The water in the mill race had turned a bruised purple, a color that did not belong to the natural spectrum of autumn but seemed to seep up from the deep, forgotten strata of the earth, and Thomas Alder stood at the edge of the weir with his hands trembling so violently that he could barely grip the rim of his tin bucket, watching the liquid churn and swirl in a way that suggested not mere flow...
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