The Wistful Saga
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of the old market square into a slick, dark mirror that reflected the grey, swollen sky. Thomas Bradshaw walked through the downpour, his boots heavy with mud and a weariness that seemed to have settled into the marrow of his bones. He carried a lantern, its glass pane cracked and fogged, casting a weak, trembling circle of light...
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