The Faded River
The air in the valley hung thick with the scent of woodsmoke and wet wool, a heavy, tangible weight that pressed against the skin of the world. It was a place where the seasons did not so much change as bleed into one another, where autumn’s bruised leaves lay tangled with the pale, stubborn greens of early winter. Here, in the hollows of the Appalachian ridge, time moved not in a straight line...
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