The Faded River
The mill at Ockham’s Bend had stood for three centuries, a stone sentinel of grit and mortar that watched the River Ockham twist its silver neck through the valley floor. It was a place of heavy silence, a building that breathed only when the water turned the great wooden wheel, a rhythmic groaning that sounded less like machinery and more like the slow, arrhythmic heartbeat of an old god. I...
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