The Distant Whispers
The fire started in the root cellar. It was not a dramatic blaze, not the roaring inferno of legend, but a slow, hungry eating of the straw and the dried turnips. By the time the smoke curled through the keyhole of the cottage door, the morning mist had already settled over the village of Oakhaven, a thick, grey shroud that smelled of wet wool and old fear. Elias Thorne woke to the heat. He was...
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