The Faded Guest
The bone was not a bone. Or rather, it had been. That was the trouble with things that ended. They kept their shape long after their substance failed. Elara found it in the mud behind the mill. It was small, pale, and curved like a question mark. A finger. No, too thick. A thumb. It lay in the wet earth, white as a piece of chalk, stark against the black slurry of the riverbank. She did not...
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