The Wistful Witness
The fog did not merely settle upon the village of Oakhaven; it consumed it, a thick, gray wool that strangled the cobblestones and silenced the barking of the dogs before dawn had fully broken. It was a morning of such profound stillness that the only sound was the wet, rhythmic tearing of Thomas Bradshaw’s boots against the mud, a sound that echoed in his own ears like a heartbeat he could no...
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