The Wistful Witness
The mill caught fire at dawn. It did not burn with the orange fury of a forest blaze. It burned cold. Blue. The heat rose, but it did not warm the skin. It chilled the blood. Silas stood on the embankment. His uniform was wet. The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the mist clung to his wool tunic. He watched the smoke rise. It did not drift. It stood. A column of grey stone, unmoving against...
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