The Distant Promise
The mortar is heavy in your hands, the granite worn smooth by three generations of grinding, and you measure the dried hemlock leaves with a precision that feels like a prayer. One pinch for the fever. Two pinches for the delirium. You are thirty-two, an apothecary in the village of Oakhaven, and your mother, Elara, lies upstairs in the room that smells of lavender and rotting wood, her breath...
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