The Faded Road
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a gray, wet curtain that smelled of rotting pine and old iron, a smell that got into the teeth and settled in the lungs like a fine, cold dust. I had been walking for three days, or perhaps four, time having lost its linear rigidity the moment the first shiver of the fever took hold of my marrow, and my boots, soaked through to the skin, felt less like...
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