The Wistful Crossroads
The forest did not breathe; it held its breath, a vast, suspended exhalation of pine needles and damp earth that had settled over the valley like a shroud woven from gray mist and silent centuries. Elara moved through this stasis with the careful, deliberate grace of a woman walking on ice that might shatter at the slightest shift in weight, her boots sinking into the loam that seemed to pull...
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