The Distant Whispers
The wool cloak had hung in the window of the Weaver’s House for forty years, its threads turning the color of dried blood and old rust, a heavy shroud draped over the empty frame where the light used to enter. It was not merely a garment, but a weight, a physical manifestation of the silence that had settled over the village of Oakhaven since the day the last child spoke a lie. In this realm,...
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