The Wistful Silence
The rain does not fall so much as it hangs in the air, a thick, grey curtain that swallows the world whole, and you are walking, your boots sinking into the mud of the old Roman road that cuts through the heather, the mud sucking at your ankles with a persistent, hungry sound that is the only thing louder than the beating of your own heart, which has not slowed since the moment you saw the...
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