The Faded River
The frost had not yet taken the fields of Oakhaven, but the air held a bite that settled deep in the marrow, a cold that whispered of endings before they had even begun. In the cottage at the edge of the village, where the thatch sagged under the weight of years and woodsmoke, Elias sat by the dying fire. His hands, rough as oak bark and stained with the indigo of the cloth he dyed, trembled...
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