The Faded Root
The clay pot in Elara’s hands was cold, its surface slick with the damp that seeped through the floorboards of the cottage, a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn air and everything to do with the rot inside her. She held it up to the grey light filtering through the shutters, watching the water inside swirl with a sluggish, brown viscosity. It was a simple thing, a vessel for a...
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