The Golden Circuit
The smoke rose in a black column. It blocked the sun. The village below smelled of burnt wire and wet ash. Thomas stood on the ridge. He held his coat tight. The wind bit his face. He looked down at the mill. The gears were still. The steam had stopped. For years, the mill had hummed. It was the heartbeat of Oakhaven. Now it was dead. Or silent. It was hard to tell the difference. Thomas was a...
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