The Faded River
The house on the hill does not remember you, which is a mercy, for it is a creature of stone and slate and stubborn oak beams that have held their breath for a century, and it knows nothing of the fever that has been eating you alive since the first frost settled on the windowsills, a cold that seeps into the marrow and turns the blood to sluggish, dark syrup, forcing you to move through the...
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