The Wistful Show
The mud is cold. It seeps into the leather of your boots. It climbs. You are in the cellar. The air smells of rot and iron. Above you, the floorboards creak. Someone is walking. It is not a footstep. It is a hammer. You look at your hands. They are red. The blood is drying. It is stiff. You do not remember where it came from. You do not remember who you are. You only know the weight in your...
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