The Wistful Saga
The coffee in the mug had gone cold an hour ago, a thick, bitter skin forming over the surface, and Elias Thorne sat in the chair, counting the seconds between the tick of the wall clock and the heavy thud of the mill’s gears vibrating through the floorboards. He was forty years old, a fact that had arrived with the same quiet, indifferent finality as the first frost of the year, and he felt...
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