The Golden Crossing
The river did not flow so much as it remembered how to flow, a slow, deliberate dragging of silver light across the dark water that seemed to pull the very air toward the far bank. Thomas Bradshaw stood on the muddy edge of the crossing, his boots sinking into the silt with a sound like a wet sigh, watching the mist curl around the ancient stones that marked the boundary of the town. It was not...
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