The Faded River
The cage is small. You remember this. The bars are cold iron. You are holding the bird. Its wings are folded tight against its body. It is still. You are still. "Move it," the voice says. You do not move. The bird is trembling. A fine, electric shiver runs through its feathers. It is a sparrow. Or something like a sparrow. Small. Brown. Ordinary. It is the most extraordinary thing in the room....
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