The Distant Ghost
The rain in the Appalachian foothills did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a gray, wet curtain that smelled of iron and rotting pine. You stood beneath the awning of the general store, your hand resting on the cold steel of the rifle you had carried for twenty years. The wood of the stock was worn smooth by the sweat of your palms, a familiar comfort in the trembling dark. You were...
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