The Golden Echoes
The stone did not just hold Mara; it consumed her, a slow, grinding ingestion that turned the morning light in the Oakhaven quarry into a sickly, bruised yellow. I was forty-two, my hands roughened to the texture of the flint I cut, and I had just reached for my daughter’s ankle when the rock seized my wrist, pulling it deep into the fissure with a force that felt less like gravity and more...
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