The Golden Farce
The rain hit the mud like a hammer on skin. It was cold. It was wet. My boots were soaked. I ran. The ground shook. I did not know why. I only knew I had to move. The forest was a wall of black trees. The air tasted of iron and rot. My lungs burned. I was a boy. I was small. I was afraid. There was a sound behind me. It was not a footstep. It was a whisper. It was in my head. It said, *Stop.*...
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