The Faded Dust
The wind on the ridge did not howl. It whispered. It scraped against the dry grass with a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard, a dry, brittle friction that pulled at the edges of silence. Elias stood at the edge of the cliff, his boots sinking slightly into the loose shale. He was not looking at the drop. He was looking at the tree. It was a lone oak, twisted by decades of exposure, its bark...
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