The Wistful Saga
The duffel bag sat heavy on the cot, a coarse canvas thing that smelled of sweat and the stale dust of the outpost, and Elias Thorne zipped it shut with a finality that felt more like a funeral rite than a packing job. He was forty-five years old, his knees aching with the particular grit of a man who had spent two decades walking the jagged line between the high desert and the valley, and his...
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