The Faded River
The moss on the wall is green. It is a deep, wet green that does not match anything else in the room. You look at it. You have looked at it for three hours. It grows in thin, velvet strips down the plaster, like a slow, silent tide. It is the only living thing left here. The rest is dust and old wood and the smell of damp paper. You are a man of business. You know this. You know the weight of a...
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