The Faded River
The iron gate did not clank, for it had not moved in a century, yet to my ears it roared like a sea breaking against a cliff face. "You hear it, do you, Thomas?" I did not turn to look at him. I could not. To turn was to admit that the air behind me was not empty, that the silence was not merely the absence of sound but a presence, thick and viscous as tar. I kept my eyes fixed on the moss that...
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