The Faded River
The mud tastes of iron and old rain. You chew it. It coats your tongue, gritty and red, a flavor you have known since you were a boy in the valley. You are walking. You do not remember starting. The road is not a road but a ribbon of wet slate winding through a forest that breathes. The trees are wrong. They are too tall, their bark black and slick, dripping a sap that glows faintly in the...
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