The Wistful Crossroads
The air in Oakhaven does not merely move; it vibrates, a low, persistent thrum that settles in the marrow of those who have lost a sibling, a sound that is not heard so much as felt in the teeth and the hollow of the chest, a resonance that has accompanied me for twenty years since the night Julian died on the wet asphalt of Route 9. I am Elias Thorne, a glassblower by trade and a mourner by...
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