The Golden Crossing
The bell rang. It did not chime. It screamed. A jagged sound, like iron on iron, tore the sky above the village of Oakhaven. The sky was not blue. It was the color of old bruises. Purple. Swollen. Silent. Thomas stood in the mud. He was small. His coat was too big. It swallowed him whole. The coat was leather. It smelled of smoke and sweat. It was not his. It had always been his. He had worn it...
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