The Wistful Witness
The cart groaned under the weight of the winter. It was a sound that lived in the bones, a low, grinding complaint that matched the ache in Elias’s knees. He pulled the reins tight, but the horse, old Bess, only snorted and moved with the slow, deliberate heaviness of a creature that had forgotten how to hope for spring. The road was a ribbon of mud and ice, winding up into the mist that...
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