The Faded River
The river does not sleep. It only pauses to breathe. You know this because you are the one who holds its pulse. Your fingers are stained with the black silt of the deep, a permanent ink that no amount of scrubbing can lift. You are the Keeper of the Waters, a title that sounds grand in the old chronicles but feels like a shackle in the bone. The house stands on the cliff, white stone bleached...
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