The Faded Road
Veldt wakes in the grey before the sun, a city of iron lungs and salt-pan silence where the wind scours the red desert of spinifex into submission. The caravan routes are empty, the temple granary doors bolted against the ice storm that fells the elms along the northern cape, and the only sound is the low, grinding hum of the mill race, a lost note that haunts the air. I am Erik Strand,...
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