The Wistful Letter
The air in the Hollow smelled of wet chalk and old blood. It was a smell I knew well, though I could not say why. My boots sank into the grey mud with a heavy, sucking sound. I walked forward. The sky above was a bruised purple, swollen and silent. No sun. No moon. Just a flat, oppressive light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. I was looking for the fox. That was my...
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