The Distant Ghost
The rain fell in sheets that smelled of iron, clogging the laces of your boots before you had even cleared the village gate. You counted the steps, one for every mile to the edge of the Whispering Waste, your breath coming in short, sharp bursts against the cold. Twelve years old, twelve years of watching your mother’s hands tremble, and now twelve years of carrying the weight of your sister’s...
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