The Distant Whispers
The rain did not stop. It fell in thin, gray sheets against the stone of the watchtower, turning the mud below into a slurry that sucked at my boots. I stood there, shivering. My hands were raw. They were the only thing I could feel. I had been climbing for three days. The rope had cut into my palms. The blisters had burst and scabbed over, then burst again. I kept them dry. I kept them clean....
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