The Wistful Witness
The frost on the windowpane of the watchtower was thick, a white lattice that blurred the world into a soft, indistinct smear of grey and black. You pressed your forehead against the cold glass, the chill biting into your skin, a sharp, clarifying pain that cut through the daze of the night shift. Below, the village of Oakhaven lay silent under the snow, its thatched roofs bowed heavy with ice,...
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