The Faded River
The lantern was a dead weight in Elias Thorne’s hands, its glass shattered, the wick soaked and useless, and the cold of the River Ouse was already seeping into the marrow of his bones, a dampness that had nothing to do with the water and everything to do with the debt. He stood knee-deep in the churning current, the year 1893 pressing down on the highlands like a heavy wool coat, and the river...
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