The Golden Myth
The mist clung to the valley floor like a damp wool blanket, refusing to lift even as the sun climbed high over the ridge. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the meadow, his boots sinking into the wet mud, watching the fog swirl around the base of the ancient oaks. In his dream, the mist had been gold, thick and sweet, promising a harvest that would fill his granary and silence the hollow ache...
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