The Wistful Skyline
The river has not moved in three days. It sits black and still beneath the bridge, a mirror that refuses to reflect the sky, only the dark, rotting timber of the old mill above it. You are sitting on the bank, your legs dangling over the edge, your boots muddy and heavy. You are seven years old, or perhaps eight. It is hard to tell time when the sun seems to stand still behind the grey clouds...
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