The Sentinel of Oakhaven
The jazz of the 1920s didn't reach the outskirts of Oakhaven; here, the only music was the rhythmic thrum of the cicadas and the distant, mournful cry of the wild. Julian sat on his porch, a glass of cheap bourbon in his hand, watching the treeline. He wore his old army jacket, the fabric frayed and smelling of old gunpowder and damp earth. He was a man who had survived the trenches of the...
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