The Wistful Silence
The fever took the village of Oakhaven in the third week of November, a creeping grey mist that settled into the marrow of the bones and turned the breath into a thin, rattling whisper. You were the apothecary, the last one standing in the rows of thatched roofs where the smoke from the hearths hung low and heavy, smelling of wet ash and despair. For thirty years you had held the keys to the...
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