The Wistful Saga
The shovel bit into the earth with a dull thud, sending a spray of cold, wet soil onto Elias’s boots. He was fifty-eight, and his knees ached with a specific, grinding pain that the Vermont winter had sharpened into a daily companion. He needed to clear the line. That was the job. The tax assessor had sent a letter, three pages of dense type and a map that looked like a spiderweb, demanding a...
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