The Distant Joke

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2026-08-23 08:37:19 -

The Distant Joke

The mist did not smell of rot, as one might expect of a plague, but of wet chalk and old paper. It crept through the thatched roofs of Oakhaven, eroding the names of the dead before it consumed the living. Elias, a scholar of forty years who had traded his ink for iron, stood at the village gate. In his hands, he held a single oak sapling. Its bark was pale, its leaves a defiant green against...

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