The Golden Myth
The rain fell on the thatch of the mill house, a steady, grey drumbeat that filled the silence. Thomas sat by the cold hearth. His hands were still. They had been moving for three days, grinding grain into flour, but now they rested on his knees, pale and thin. The air smelled of wet wool and woodsmoke. Outside, the village of Oakhaven slept under a quilt of mud and mist. He did not look up. He...
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