The Distant Ghost
The stone bridge of Oakhaven did not merely span the River Aven; it held the throat of the valley in a silent, calcified grip, its arches blooming with lichen that looked, from a distance, like the scars of old wounds that had finally stopped bleeding. Elias Thorne stood at the parapet, his hands resting on the cold, damp flagstones, feeling the vibration of the current far below. He was a man...
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