The Faded River
The table was long. It stretched from the cold hearth to the high window where the fog pressed its gray face against the glass. You sat at the head. You were not used to the head. You were used to the side, to the corner, to the quiet end of the room where the shadows gathered and stayed. But tonight, the room was bright. Candles burned in silver holders. The air smelled of beeswax and old...
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