The Faded River
The first thing you notice is the smell. It is not the sharp, metallic tang of blood, nor the stale, dusty scent of the cellar where you keep your accounts, but something heavier. It is the smell of rotting fruit, of overripe pears left too long in the bowl on the windowsill, a sweetness that has turned sickly and dark. It clings to the back of your throat, coating the tongue with a film that...
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