The Faded Attic
The rain had stopped, but the air still held the wet, heavy scent of turned earth and diesel, a smell that clung to the wool of my coat and seeped into the pores of my skin. I stood alone at the edge of the ravine, the black mud sucking at my boots with a slow, rhythmic pull, as if the ground itself were trying to drag me down into its dark, silent belly. My hand rested on the hilt of the...
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