The Wistful Show
The fire started at the roots of the Great Oak and ate upward with a hunger that seemed personal. It was not a dry, snapping blaze, but a slow, suffocating suffusion, as if the forest itself were trying to digest the last of the winter. For Thomas, the air tasted of ash and old blood. He stood at the edge of the clearing, his hands trembling not from the heat, but from the terrible clarity that...
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