The Faded Paradox
The rain falls sideways here. It cuts through the fog like a blade, slicing the gray air into ribbons of cold. You stand on the edge of the pier. The wood is wet. Your boots sink slightly into the mud. You are not supposed to be here. You know this. The whistle blows. A long, mournful note that vibrates in your chest. It is the sound of the end. Or the beginning. It is hard to tell which, in...
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