The Pale Echo
The mud was deep. It sucked at my boots with a wet, tearing sound that echoed in the hollow of my chest. I pulled free one leg, then the other. I could not stop. I would not stop. The fog rolled in from the valley below, thick and grey, swallowing the pine needles. It smelled of rot and old rain. My father’s house stood ahead. It was a ruin of stone and timber, half-consumed by the forest. The...
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