The Faded Dust

added blog Literature

2026-08-23 01:15:12 -

The Faded Dust

The mist did not roll. It pressed. It was a grey, wet wall that smelled of wet wool and old iron, clinging to the boots of the men who walked the northern pass. I stood alone on the ridge, the wind biting through my wool coat, my hand wrapped around a rusted iron key I had pulled from the pocket of a dead man three days prior. The man had been hanged for smuggling, or so the records said. I...

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