The Wistful Crossroads
The air in the village of Oakhaven tasted of roasted chestnuts and stale fear, a thick, sugary fog that clung to the skin like a damp shroud. At the center of the square, beneath the heavy, gnarled branches of an ancient elm that had witnessed three centuries of local history, the Harvest Feast was in full swing. Long tables were draped in cloth so white it seemed to glow with its own inner...
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