The Pale Bridge
The river did not rise so much as it remembered. It swelled with a cold, muscular patience, turning the familiar brown current into a gray, breathing thing that swallowed the lower steps of the town of Oakhaven. It was the time of the long rains, a season the elders spoke of only in whispers, for the water in Oakhaven was not merely water. It was a witness. And witnesses, in this place,...
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