The Distant Metropolis
The road to Oakhaven was not merely a path of crushed stone and mud, but a slow, grinding exhalation of the valley’s breath, a route that seemed to stretch itself longer with every step Thomas Whitmore took, as if the earth itself resisted his arrival. He was a man whose hands had been shaped by the chisel and the hammer, a carver of wood whose work was known for its silent dignity, yet he...
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