The Faded Road
The oak had been dying for a century, yet it still held the sky up like a broken bone. It stood in the center of the old Pemberton estate, a twisted, knotted sentinel whose roots had cracked the flagstones of the forecourt. The leaves were not green, but a pale, skeletal white, trembling in the wind that never seemed to die. We called it the Witness. The villagers called it the Hangman’s Tree,...
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