The Wistful Saga
The stone wall stood against the northern sky like a broken jaw, jagged and grey against the pale October light. Elias Thorne, forty-five years old and stiff in the joints from two decades of patrolling the county line, ran his hand over the mortar. It crumbled between his fingers, gritty and dry, offering no resistance to the wind that swept off the ridge. He needed this wall intact, solid,...
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