The Golden Crossing
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey mist that clung to the cobblestones of Oakhaven and seeped into the bones of anyone foolish enough to walk the market square at dusk. It was a town that existed in the fold of a whisper, a place where the air tasted of wet wool and old copper, and where the boundary between the living and the remembered had long since rotted away...
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