The Faded River
The iron lattice of the window frame vibrates against your cheek as you sleep, a low, subsonic hum that you mistake for the rhythmic churning of the loom downstairs, that relentless mechanical heartbeat of the house which has governed your every waking moment for the past decade. You dream of the glass, not the shattering of it, but the way it catches the light in the afternoon, fracturing the...
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