The Wistful Atlas
The fog did not lift from the valley of Oakhaven; it simply thickened, curling around the ankles of the walking stones and pressing against the windowpanes of the old stone house like a living thing seeking entry. Inside, Silas Vane sat at the heavy oak table, his hands resting on the surface as if they belonged to someone else, still and pale in the dim light. He was a man who had built his...
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