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The Spellweaver
Category: Fantasy
The train pulled out of the station with a long, mournful whistle.
The morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold.
The letter was still on the table, unopened, as it had been for three days.
The sword was heavier than she expected, but she did not lower it.
He stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down at the waves crashing below.
The garden had been her mother’s pride, and now it was hers.
He was the kind of man who kept his word, even when it cost him.
Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.
The end.