The Distant Journey
The mud clings to your boots like a second skin, cold and heavy, sucking at every step you take through the peat bog. You are not running. You are walking. There is a difference, and you have learned it in the last three days of this gray, endless night. The rain does not fall; it hovers, a fine mist that soaks into your hair and settles in the hollows of your collarbone. You are Thomas...
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