The Faded River
The fog that rises from the river at dusk is a physical fact, not a mood, and it swallowed the ruins of the Rafferty house with a silence that felt like a held breath. Cormac Rafferty stood in the ash, his hands trembling not from cold but from the desperate, hollow need to find the truth in the charred beams, while the distant rumble of Prussian artillery marked the edge of the forest. He was...
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