The Wistful Ashes
The smoke tasted of copper and old paper, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat as I stared at the ruins of the shop I had built with my own hands. Mayor Halloway’s men had not just burned the inventory; they had burned the history, the ledgers, the very air that had once smelled of dried lavender and crushed willow bark. I stood in the street, the only thing I had saved clutched in...
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