The Wistful Witness
The mist that settles over the valley of Oakhaven does not behave like weather; it behaves like a living thing, a grey, breathless entity that curls around the eaves of the mill and seeps into the marrow of anyone who has not learned to look away from it. You stand at the center of this stillness, a place where the river bends so sharply it seems to be trying to undo itself, and you feel the...
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