The Faded Ruin
The rain in Oakhaven does not fall; it settles, a grey, persistent mist that clings to the wool of your coat and the stone of the cobblestones, as if the town itself is breathing a slow, damp sigh. You have lived in the shadow of the Old Mill for thirty years, or perhaps it has lived in you, because you can no longer recall a time when the scent of wet millstone and stale grain was not the very...
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