The Wistful Saga
Chapter One Could a man truly hear his own thoughts spoken by the wind, or was it only the hollow echo of a mind already fraying? I wrote that question in the ledger at forty-two of the Amber Stair, the ink still wet, before the cold took the rest of the night. I am Ronan Nolan, and I left Elara sleeping in the house that smelled of wet wool and debt, stepping out into the bog roads of Mayo...
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