The Distant Whispers
"Do you think it smells like rot, or just like iron? I can’t tell anymore. The air in here has a weight to it, a specific gravity that presses against the back of my throat, and I find myself swallowing it down, tasting the copper tang of my own fear mixed with the stale, sweet decay of the orchard outside. You have to help me, Thomas. You have to tell me what to do with this. I am holding it,...
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