The Distant Ghost

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2026-08-23 11:21:46 -

The Distant Ghost

The blue moth hovered above the stone floor, its wings pulsing with a cold, rhythmic light that seemed to suck the warmth from the damp air. Thomas Bradshaw held the rough hessian sack in his hands, the grain inside heavy and wet, smelling of rot and old iron. He was thirty-two years old, a miller in the village of Oakhaven, and he needed this last measure of winter wheat to pay the lord’s...

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