The Wistful Grid
The rain in Oakhaven does not wash things clean. It seeps. It finds the cracks in the plaster, the gaps in the foundation, the spaces between the words you say and the things you mean. You drive your truck down the wet asphalt, the wipers beating a slow, rhythmic thud against the glass. You are going to see the old mill. It is a place of stone and timber, standing on the edge of the river,...
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