The Faded River
The wool had turned the color of old blood before the winter set in. It was a heavy thing, that coat, woven in the highlands by hands that knew the bite of the wind, and it had been mine since the day I was born. My mother, before the sickness took her voice and then her life, had stitched my name into the lining in thread that had long since faded to a pale, ghostly white. I had worn it...
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