The Faded Road
The river in my dream does not obey the laws of gravity, but climbs the steep, mossy bank toward a sky that is the color of bruised iron. I have seen this ascent for three weeks now, the water defying its nature with a quiet, relentless persistence that mirrors the absurdity of my own existence in this city. I am Elias Thorne, a clockmaker of thirty-four years, and I am writing this down...
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