The Wistful Petal
The rain in the valley of Alder Creek did not fall so much as it suspended itself, a grey curtain of mist that blurred the boundary between the earth and the sky, until the traveler, a man whose name had been worn smooth by the years like a river stone, stepped out of the fog with the heavy, rusted iron bell hanging from his leather satchel, a vessel that had once contained the voices of the...
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