The Faded Sutra
The oak tree in the courtyard had been dead for three years, its branches stripped of bark by the relentless, indifferent wind that swept across the moors, yet it remained standing, a jagged silhouette against the gray sky, defying the logic of decay. Margaret Holloway stood beneath its shadow, her hands buried in the cold mud, feeling the pulse of the earth beneath her fingernails, a rhythm...
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