The Faded River
Your hands are shaking as you lift the grain sack, the rough burlap scraping against skin that feels too thin for your bones. The mill is silent, a terrible, heavy silence that presses against your eardrums, broken only by the distant, hollow clatter of the river stones below. You are Elias, thirty-two, and you are trying to keep your head up while your body remembers it is eighty. The frost is...
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