The Wistful Saga
The air in the community hall of Millhaven smelled of stale yeast, industrial lemon polish, and the heavy, cloying sweetness of the forty-two slices of cherry pie that lined the folding tables. It was the annual Harvest Gala, a tradition so deeply rooted in the town’s collective consciousness that to miss it was to be considered a ghost, and to arrive late was to be considered a sinner. The...
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