The Wistful Ashes
The decree is final, Maren. You will not touch the stone until the surveyors have cleared the site. Thomas Bradshaw spoke from the doorway, his voice thin and reedy against the damp silence of the kitchen. He held a clipboard, the paper yellowed and brittle, the ink smudged by the fog that had rolled in from the moor an hour ago. Maren stood at the window, her back to him, watching the gray...
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