The Wistful Ashes
The kettle is still whistling, a thin, high-pitched note that cuts through the heavy, grey silence of the kitchen, and you stand there with your hands wrapped around a ceramic mug that has long since gone cold, feeling the rough texture of the glaze against your palms as if it were the only solid thing left in a world that has begun to dissolve into mist. You are in the town of Oakhaven, a...
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