The Wistful Crossroads
The bread was stale. It had been stale for three days, or perhaps three years. Time in the village of Oakhaven did not move in lines. It pooled. It stagnated like water in a cracked basin. Elias stood at the kitchen table, his hands resting on the grain of the wood. His hands were old things. The knuckles were swollen, swollen with the weight of years he had not earned but had been forced to...
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