The Wistful Cipher
The apple tree in the center of the village square did not rot, nor did it wither, though it had been struck by lightning a century ago and left as a charred, blackened skeleton against the pale sky. It stood as a monument to a silence that no one dared to speak of, a hollow shell that held the memory of sweetness but none of the taste. In the town of Oakhaven, time did not move in a straight...
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