The Faded River
The mist did not lift so much as it dissolved into the wet, gray marrow of the morning, a slow exhalation from the earth itself that clung to the fur of the wolves and the moss that choked the ancient oaks of the valley, a place where the air tasted of iron and old rain, a place where we had walked for three days with nothing but the silence of our own breath and the grinding of stone against...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews