The Wistful Saga
The rain did not fall so much as it leaked from the sky, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of the village square into a mirror reflecting the soot-streaked bell tower of the old mill, a structure that had stood witness to three generations of the Harrow family and, by extension, the slow, grinding erosion of Margaret’s soul. She sat alone in the drafty parlor of the...
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