The Wistful Crossroads
The frost had not yet touched the tops of the rye, but it sat heavy in the roots, a gray dampness that seeped up through the soles of Elias’s boots as he worked the last of the winter grain. He was thirty years old, a miller with hands roughened by chaff and flour, and he moved with the quiet, deliberate economy of a man who had learned early that silence was the only currency that never...
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