The Faded Root
The wind did not blow so much as it screamed, a jagged, metallic shriek that tore through the gaps in the corrugated iron of the old reservoir station, a sound that felt less like weather and more like the grinding of gears in a machine that had forgotten how to stop, and I stood there, my fingers white-knuckled around the railing, watching the fog roll in from the valley below, a thick, grey...
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