The Pale Fracture
You do not know why you are running. The air tastes of copper and burnt sugar. It is the taste of the medicine. You chew it. It is dry. It is ash. You spit it out. You keep running. The road is cracked. The sky is low. A grey dome presses down on the valley. This is the End of the World, or so they tell you. It is only the quiet after the bomb. Or the silence before the next one. You are...
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