The Faded Root
The dream was not of roots, but of rot. I woke with the taste of wet earth in my mouth, my hands trembling as if I had been digging in the dark. I am Elias, forty-two, a man who spent twenty years standing still at the border, watching the world try to cross me. Now I sit in the high-backed chair of my ancestral manor, the air thick with the dust of centuries, and I want only to sell this...
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