The Golden Echoes
The mist clung to the valley like a shroud. I was alone in the cottage. The walls were damp. The air tasted of rot. My brother, Thomas, was dead. Or so I believed. He had vanished three days prior. I had waited. I had watched the windows. Nothing moved but the fog. I felt a lightness. A strange, airy buoyancy. I had told myself I was free. I was no longer the caretaker. I was no longer the...
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