The Wistful Saga
The heavy oak chest sat in the center of the long, dust-mote-filled hall, its surface scarred not by battle but by the slow, patient erosion of time, the grain of the wood darkened and softened until it looked less like a piece of furniture and more like a fossilized heart, a vessel that had held so many secrets that it had become indistinguishable from the silence itself, a silence that was...
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