The Golden Crossing
The river broke the dam on a Tuesday. Not with a roar. With a sigh. The water simply gave up its shape. It poured over the stone lip of the Leadenwall, a thick, brown curtain that swallowed the footbridge. I stood on the upper bank, my boots caked in the silt of the old quarry. The air smelled of iron and wet wool. I am not a man of the land. I am not a man of the town. I am a thing that walks...
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