The Faded Root
The rain did not fall so much as it persisted, a fine, grey mist that clung to the stone walls of the village hall, eroding the mortar between the bricks with the slow, patient inevitability of entropy. Arthur Penhaligon sat at the heavy oak table, his hands resting on the surface, fingers spread wide as if trying to anchor himself to the wood grain. He was a man of precise measurements and...
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