The old woman, Elara, sat on the weathered porch swing. Her wrinkled hands, gnarled like ancient tree roots, clutched a chipped ceramic mug. Steam curled from the chamomile tea, carrying the scent of sun-baked earth and distant rain. The air was thick with the buzz of cicadas, a sound that always transported her back to her childhood. Back to a time before the Silence.
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Echoes of Light
The old woman, Elara, sat on a moss-covered rock. Her wrinkled hands, like ancient maps, held a smooth, grey stone. It pulsed faintly with a light only she could see. The air around her hummed, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Autumn leaves, crimson and gold, swirled around her like restless spirits.
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