The Faded Paradox
The mud on your boots is black and slick, sticking to the soles with a tenacity that feels personal, like a judgment you cannot shake. You are walking the ridge line of the Appalachian foothills, where the trees have given way to a sparse, gray scrub that offers no cover and no comfort. The air is thin here, cold enough to bite the inside of your nose if you breathe too sharply. You adjust the...
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