From the slow, black water he rises—slick wings folded, eyes catching moonlight like broken lantern glass. The river doesn’t ripple; it waits. Locals swear the Musconetcong learned his shape first, then taught it to the fog. He watches from midstream, patient as rot, counting footsteps on the bank. You don’t see him unless he wants you to. And if you do, it’s already too late because river remembers...
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