The Wistful Saga
The rain did not stop. It fell in sheets. Gray. Cold. It soaked through wool. It seeped into bone. Old Thomas walked. His boots were heavy. Mud clung to them. Black sludge. He carried a basket. It was wicker. Worn thin. Inside lay eggs. Three. White. Smooth. They smelled of chalk. And damp. He was walking to the mill. The mill was high. On the hill. Stone. Gray. Like the sky. Like the rain....
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