The Wistful Voyage
The orchard at the edge of the Whitmore estate had been dead for three years, yet the air around it still hummed with a static charge that made the hair on Elias’s arms stand on end. He stood at the gate, his hand resting on the cold iron, watching the pale leaves of the withered apple trees rattle against each other in a wind that did not seem to move anything else. Inside the house, the...
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