The Distant Summer
The river, in those ancient and forgotten days when the world was still young enough to be shaped by the hands of the powerful, did not merely flow but exhaled, a long, gray breath of mist that clung to the willows and the mud banks with a tenacity that suggested a memory too deep to be washed away, and it was into this exhalation, this perpetual sigh of the earth, that old Silas Thorne...
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