The Wistful Show
You are running. The mud sucks at your boots. You are twelve. You are fast. You are not afraid. Or you tell yourself you are not afraid. That is the first lie. The woods are black. The rain is cold. It hits your face like needles. You hold the box. It is heavy. It is warm. It hums. Inside is the mark. The seal. The thing that binds you to the road. You have the map. It is wet. The ink is...
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