The Faded River
The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in a steady, gray sheet that blurred the boundaries between the cobblestones and the gutters of the city, turning the streets into a mosaic of mud and reflection. Elias Thorne stood on the bridge, his coat heavy with water, watching the current below. The river was not a river of water, but a river of memory, thick and slow, carrying the debris...
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