The Distant Ghost
The willow tree stood in the center of the square, its branches sweeping low like the arms of a mourning widow. It was a strange thing for a tree to do, to bend so close to the cobblestones, as if it were trying to hide. Or perhaps it was trying to touch the ground, to root itself in the dirt before the wind took it. It had been there for a hundred years. It had seen the king’s men come. It had...
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