The Wistful Crossroads
The frost had not yet melted from the hedgerows when Elias Thorne began to walk. He had been walking for three days, or perhaps three weeks; time in the Ashlands did not keep a steady rhythm, but bent and twisted like the roots of the ancient yew trees that marked the border of the county. He was a man of forty winters, his face mapped with the same deep furrows as the soil he had left behind,...
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