The Distant Ghost
The fog in the valley of Ashwood did not merely settle; it breathed, a slow, rhythmic exhalation of the earth that seemed to swallow the world whole, reducing the ancient oak trees to skeletal silhouettes against a sky the color of bruised slate, and within this suffocating embrace, Elias Thorne, a man whose hands were permanently stained with the tannic brown of the bark he carved and the...
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