The Golden Maze
The oak was dying. It stood in the center of the clearing like a skeleton stripped of flesh, its branches clawing at the grey sky. Elias sat at its base, his back against the rough bark. The wood was cold. It bit into his spine. He did not move. He had not moved in three days. The forest was not like other forests. Here, the trees remembered. They held grudges. They whispered names. Elias knew...
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