The Faded River
I am writing this from the hollow of a tree that has long since rotted into the earth, a space so tight and dark that the air tastes of wet rot and old blood, and I can feel the pulse of the wood against my back like a second heartbeat, a slow, terrible drumming that reminds me that I am still alive even as I try to convince myself that I am already gone. The walls are not solid stone but the...
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