The Faded River
"Cut it off," Marcus said. His voice was flat. Dead. "Just cut it off, Elena." Elena held the shears. The metal was cold against her palm. Her brother’s hand trembled. Not from fear. From rage. Pure, white-hot rage that had no place in the quiet of the garden. They were standing in the dirt. The soil was black and wet. It smelled of rot. It smelled of life. "I can't," she whispered. "Do it," he...
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