The Pale Bridge
The rain in the valley of Ashwick did not fall so much as it settled, a heavy, gray sludge that coated the cobblestones of the old mill town and turned the air into something thick and tasteless, like licking a copper coin, and I stood there in the mud, my boots sinking with a wet, sucking sound that felt less like movement and more like the earth trying to swallow me whole, while the clock on...
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