The Distant Journey
The rain does not fall so much as it hangs, a thick, grey curtain that erases the horizon and turns the world into a soft, damp blur of shadows. You are driving the truck, the one with the dented fender and the engine that coughs like an old man with tuberculosis, and your hands are white-knuckled on the wheel, the leather worn smooth by years of your grip. Inside the cab, the air is warm and...
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