The Wistful Show
The rain did not fall. It hung. A gray veil stretched tight across the valley, blurring the line between earth and sky. Thomas stood still. His boots sank into the mud. He waited. The cold bit through his wool. It bit deeper. It reached his bones. He was old. His knees ached. His breath came short. He watched the mist. It moved. It swirled. It looked like smoke from a dead fire. He had come...
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