The Golden Echoes
The road was wet. Not rain. Just the sweat of the earth itself. We walked in the dark. The mist clung to us like wet wool. It smelled of rot and old iron. I pulled my coat tighter. It was a heavy thing. Dark blue. Worn thin at the elbows. It had belonged to my father. Before him, his. It was a shroud I wore for the living. "Keep moving," said Elias. His voice was low. A gravel scrape. He walked...
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