The Faded Quadrant
The rain did not fall. It hung. It was a gray, suspended fog that clung to the wool of my coat and the iron of the bridge. I stood at the center of the old suspension span, the one that crossed the Blackwater River before the new highway swallowed the valley. The cables hummed. A low, industrial drone. The sound of steel under tension. I am a man who measures things. I count the rivets. I check...
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