The Wistful Saga
The wind did not howl so much as it screamed, a high, thin keening that tore at the frayed edges of the tent canvas and whipped the dust of the highway into a blinding, ochre haze that coated the back of Margaret Holloway’s throat with the grit of pulverized bone. She stood in the center of the makeshift shelter, her boots caked in the red mud of the valley she had just crossed, her hands...
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