The Distant Blade
The rain in the Highlands does not wash things clean; it merely makes the grime slicker, turning the mud into a mirror that reflects only your own fractured face. You drive the battered Ford across the moor, the wipers beating a frantic, arrhythmic code against the glass, a language of urgency you have forgotten how to speak. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of wet wool and stale...
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