The Distant Wound
The fog did not merely obscure the valley of Oakhurst; it consumed it, a dense, gelatinous maw that swallowed the stone cottages and the gnarled oak trees whole, leaving only the faint, rhythmic scraping of the iron-shod wheels against the cobblestone as the sole evidence that the world still turned. Elias Thorne, a man whose hands were stained permanently with the indigo dye of the cloth he...
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