The Wistful Witness
The rain does not fall. It climbs. You feel it on your skin before you see it. A wet, cold hand pressing against your cheek. You are walking the ridge. The path is gone. The mud is thick and brown and smells of iron and rot. Your boots sink. You pull them out. You walk. Your name is Thomas. You do not remember your last name. It feels heavy. Like a stone in your mouth. You swallow it down. You...
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