The Faded Dust
The air in the Hollow did not smell of rot, as I had been taught to expect from the places between. It smelled of wet stone and old iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat. I sat on a flat slab of granite, my back against a wall that seemed to rise directly from the earth, and I watched the moss creep across the surface. It was green, an impossible, vibrant green that did not...
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