The Pale Echo
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray sheet that turned the mud of the valley floor into a sucking, brown paste that held the boots of any traveler with a jealous, unyielding grip, so that when I stepped back onto the porch of the old stone lodge, shaking the water from my sleeves, I felt less like a man returning home and more like a piece of driftwood washed up on a...
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