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A Man Called Saint
Chapter One: The Stranger
The town of Ashton Hill was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Nestled in a valley and surrounded by rolling hills, it was a picturesque, if not somewhat sleepy, community. Life moved at a leisurely pace, and the most exciting events were the annual pie contest and the occasional high school football game. That all changed the day Saint arrived.
The sun had just begun its ascent, casting a golden hue over the town, when the bell above the door of the local diner chimed softly. The regulars, engrossed in their morning routines, barely noticed the new arrival at first. But as the man stepped inside, a hush fell over the room. He was tall, with a rugged, weather-beaten face that spoke of years spent braving the elements. His clothes were simple yet meticulously clean, and his eyes—sharp, piercing, and grey as a storm—seemed to take in everything at once.
Emily, the young waitress who had worked at the diner since she was sixteen, felt a chill of intrigue as she approached him. “Morning, sir. What can I get for you?”
“Just coffee. Black,” he replied, his voice low and calm, like a river running deep.
She poured his coffee, her curiosity piqued by his presence. Strangers were rare in Ashton Hill, and this one...
The town of Ashton Hill was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Nestled in a valley and surrounded by rolling hills, it was a picturesque, if not somewhat sleepy, community. Life moved at a leisurely pace, and the most exciting events were the annual pie contest and the occasional high school football game. That all changed the day Saint arrived.
The sun had just begun its ascent, casting a golden hue over the town, when the bell above the door of the local diner chimed softly. The regulars, engrossed in their morning routines, barely noticed the new arrival at first. But as the man stepped inside, a hush fell over the room. He was tall, with a rugged, weather-beaten face that spoke of years spent braving the elements. His clothes were simple yet meticulously clean, and his eyes—sharp, piercing, and grey as a storm—seemed to take in everything at once.
Emily, the young waitress who had worked at the diner since she was sixteen, felt a chill of intrigue as she approached him. “Morning, sir. What can I get for you?”
“Just coffee. Black,” he replied, his voice low and calm, like a river running deep.
She poured his coffee, her curiosity piqued by his presence. Strangers were rare in Ashton Hill, and this one...
