The Faded Photograph
The rain hits the windshield. It is cold. It is hard. You hold the steering wheel. Your knuckles are white. The wipers beat. They are rhythmic. They are tired. You are driving through the dark. The road is empty. The headlights cut the mist. You are looking for something. You are looking for a man. You are looking for a ghost. You stop the car. The engine dies. The silence is heavy. It presses...
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