The Faded Root
You stand at the edge of the cobblestone square, where the mist clings to the iron railings like wet wool. The year is not written in numbers here, but in the way the light bends, thin and gold, through the perpetual fog of the city. You are seven, or perhaps eight, though time moves in circles in this place, grinding the years into dust rather than stacking them in a line. Your name is Thomas,...
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