The Golden Crossing

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2026-08-17 16:47:54 -

The mud on your boots is black and slick, tasting of iron and old rain, and you are running not away from the house but toward the riverbank where the willows bend so low they touch the water like a curtain drawn across a window. You are fourteen, or perhaps fifteen, time having become a fluid thing in the valley of Oakhaven, a place where the fog does not lift but rather thickens, seeping into...

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