The Wistful Silence
The crate of dried foxglove and willow bark sat on the floorboards, heavy with the weight of the earth it had come from, its rough wooden slats splintered under Thomas’s grip. He held it there, feeling the jagged edges dig into his palms, the scent of dried root and damp soil rising to meet the stale air of the bedroom. Outside, the wind pressed against the shutters, a low, persistent moan that...
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