The Distant Whispers
The sky over the valley was not a sky at all, but a bruised membrane of violet and charcoal, pulsing with a slow, rhythmic thrum that Margot could feel in the marrow of her bones, a vibration that seemed to precede the sound of the wind before it ever reached her ears. She stood on the precipice of the cliff, her boots sinking into the loose shale, holding the heavy, cold weight of the old...
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