The Distant Summer
I woke in the mud of the Greenway, the taste of iron and old rain sitting heavy on my tongue. The sky was the color of bruised plums, a twilight that never seemed to break into true day or true night. I knew, with the dull certainty of a muscle remembering a blow, that I was not supposed to be here. I was supposed to be at the desk. I was supposed to be filling out the forms for the Departure...
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