The Faded River
The river did not flow. It sat. A brown, stagnant eye in the throat of the valley. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the mud, his boots sinking into the silt with a wet, sucking sound. He adjusted his spectacles. The lenses were thick. They magnified the world until it blurred into a haze of green and grey. He was a scholar of hydrology, or so the town believed. In reality, he was a man who had...
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