The Wistful Saga

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2026-08-20 10:03:04 -

The Wistful Saga

The air in the garden did not smell of earth or rain, as it should have, but of ozone and burnt copper, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and refused to leave. I stood beneath the skeletal branches of the old oak, the one that had been there since before my father was born, and watched the leaves fall upward. They drifted toward a sky that was not a sky, but a swirling vortex of...

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