The Faded River
The bus stopped. I stepped out. The air smelled of damp wool and rain. I walked to the house. It stood on a hill. My father’s house. He was dead. Two days ago. I had not told him. He did not know. I carried a bag. Inside was a box. The box held his hands. Wait. Not his hands. His gloves. Leather. Worn thin. I touched them. They were cold. I walked up the path. The grass was long. It brushed my...
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