The Wistful Mirror
The rain had been falling for six hours, a steady, cold sheet that turned the mud of the Columbia Gorge into a slick, breathing paste. Elias Thorne stood on the fractured edge of what had once been the Millstone Bridge, counting the seconds between the heavy, rhythmic thuds of the earth settling beneath his boots. Four seconds. Three. Two. One. Then the ground would shift, a low, groaning...
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