The Faded Root
The road was mud. Thick, sucking, brown mud. It pulled at the boots of Thomas. Thomas was small. He was seven. He walked fast. His legs pumped like pistons. The rain fell. Cold. Sharp. It hit his face. He did not blink. He carried the basket. The basket was heavy. It held three loaves. Rye. Dark. Smelling of smoke. He walked toward the Gate. The Gate was high. Stone. Gray. It stood against the...
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