The Faded River
The count was always the same: four hundred and twelve hours since the last full moon, or perhaps since Julian’s body was pulled from the silt, the two timelines having merged in my mind until I could no longer tell where the clock ended and the grief began. I stood in the watchtower of the Blackwater Dam, the wind tearing at my wool coat, my fingers numb on the brass railing as I checked the...
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