The Wistful Crossroads
The fog in Oakhaven does not roll in; it seeps, a cold, wet breath that finds the cracks in the stone and the gaps in your skin, settling into the marrow until you cannot tell where the village ends and the dead begin. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and for the last three winters you have served as the boundary between the living and the lost, a medium whose gift is a slow...
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