The Wistful Saga
Three hours. That is how long the spade had been in the earth before Elias Thorne’s shoulders began to burn. He counted the strokes. One, two, three. The soil was wet, heavy with the recent rain, and it clung to the blade in thick, greasy ribbons. He wiped his hands on his trousers, leaving dark streaks across the fabric. The Grey Moss was already there. It started as a faint, powdery grey dust...
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