The Pale Letter
The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in a cold, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of Oakhaven into slick mirrors, reflecting the dim, amber glow of the tallow candles burning in the shop windows. It was the year of the Great Drought, or so the elders claimed, though the sky wept now. The village sat huddled in the valley, a bowl of stone and slate, waiting for the water to...
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