The Wistful Letter
The bell in the steeple did not ring. It screamed, a high, thin shriek that tore through the fog like a blade through wet silk, and then the silence that followed was heavier than the stone itself. You stood in the center of the village square, your boots caked in the red mud of the harvest fields, your hand steady on the hilt of the short sword at your waist. Around you, the villagers did not...
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