The Wistful Witness
The dust of the road settled on my coat before the wagon had even cleared the bend in the valley, a fine, gray silt that seemed to cling to the fabric like a second skin, heavy with the memory of a thousand feet before mine. I sat in the back, watching the landscape blur into a smear of ochre and dried grass, the rhythm of the wheels against the loose gravel a dull, persistent thud that matched...
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