The Wistful Silence
The cart wheels grind against the packed earth of the valley floor, a sound that resembles the slow, agonizing cracking of old bones, and you, Elias Thorne, stand at the edge of the wagon bed with your hands clasped so tightly around the rough-hewn timber that the splinters dig into your palm with a precision that feels almost surgical, a physical manifestation of the spiritual tightness that...
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