The Golden Downtown
The mud of the Wandering Marshes did not dry; it merely remembered the weight of those who walked upon it. For three days, I had carried the silence in my chest, a hollow drum beaten by the wind, while Elias walked beside me, his steps lighter than mine, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the mist thinned into a bruised violet. We were running, though running was a word that implied speed and...
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