The Pale Dance
The oak tree in the center of the square did not fall, though the winter wind tore at its branches with a violence that seemed to mock the silence of the town. It stood as it had for a hundred years, its roots tangled deep in the earth, its leaves gone, its bare limbs reaching up like the skeletal fingers of a beggar. To the people of Oakhaven, it was a symbol of permanence, a witness to the...
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