Tom Fletcher heaved another log from the cart, his muscles straining under the weight. He tossed it on the pile with the other logs, the sound loud and echoey in the empty woodshed. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold evening air, a testament to the hours he’d spent catching up on work.
He paused, straightening his back and wiping his forehead with a calloused hand. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, the purple and blues of twilight …
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