The Wistful Witness
The fire did not come from the sky, nor from the wrath of a god, but from the dry rot of the old oak that had sheltered your family for three generations, a tree that held your breath in its rings and your history in its bark. It was a Tuesday in late October when the first spark caught, a small, orange eye blinking in the darkness before the world turned into a screaming mouth of heat. You...
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