The Distant Temple
The oak tree died on a Tuesday, which was the only day of the week that mattered to the town council, and it fell with a sound like a cannon shot fired inside a cathedral, a boom that rattled the teacups in my kitchen and sent a plume of grey dust into the air that smelled of wet rot and old wood. I am Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, and I have spent the last thirty years cataloging the...
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