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Years later, Amos stood under the oak behind the barn, now joined by a sapling from the Grove’s seed. Willow Creek was no longer just a village but a community, its fields green, its people bound by shared purpose. Amos, still a country boy, carried the spiral in his heart—a reminder that heroes aren’t born but grown, through trials, in the dirt of home. At night, he’d look at the stars, no longer restless, but whole.