The Wistful Show
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the dirt road into a slurry of mud and rotting leaves that sucked at the boots of the mourners as we carried my father’s coffin toward the edge of the clearing, where the Wandering Guild had pitched their canvas tents like a transient city of grey and black. I was fourteen, and the weight of the casket handles had already blistered the palms of...
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