The Wistful Show
The road to the village of Oakhaven was not merely a path but a wound in the earth, a long, jagged scar that bled mud and sorrow as you trudged along it, your boots sinking into the wet clay with a heavy, sucking sound that marked your rhythm against the silence of the surrounding pines, which stood like silent, black-jacketed sentinels watching your approach with eyes that held the memory of...
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