Followers
Never mind the flying daggers, the billow of crows
tugging the glazed horizon. Songs of witches
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The Chinese New Year was approaching. The muffled chimes of the temple bell froze in the air. The eerie orange hue of the sky mingled with the light cyan mist. Few pedestrians ducked their heads like ... [+]
It was the end of summer.
The sun grew into a large, old asphalt ball that tardily melted down. Waves of heat rose off the ground, and the figures of Nguyet and her aged horse weaved slowly within
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