The Faded Photograph
The woolen cloak that your mother wove before the fever took her voice is the only thing left in the world that does not rot, does not fade, and does not betray you, and it is this immutable object, this heavy, itchy shroud of dark grey fiber, that you have carried for seven years across the jagged, wind-scoured peaks of the northern highlands, where the air is so thin and cold it burns the...
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