The Pale Mist
The frost had not yet taken the fields, but it had taken the breath from the village of Oakhaven, settling into the lungs of the few who remained with a gritty, persistent ache. Elara stood at the edge of the lane where the cobblestones gave way to the muddy track that wound into the Whispering Woods. She held the basket in her hands, her knuckles white against the splintered wood, and watched...
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