The Faded River
Chapter One Werner Hoffmann, forty-two, had mapped the Isar for six years before the ice took the elms. He stood on the scree slope, his left knee aching with a dull, localized heat that pulsed in time with his breath. The river below did not flow normally. It slowed around his joints, a local rule of this alpine valley where physical decay altered the water’s current. Werner watched the...
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