The Wistful Crossroads
The Wistful Crossroads The fog on the South Bank did not roll in so much as rise—exhaling from the Thames like breath from a sleeping giant. Catherine Ashworth-Cross stood at the edge of the pedestrian bridge, her umbrella tilted just so, watching the water swallow the lights of Lambeth on the far shore. She had come here every Tuesday for eleven years. Not to the bridge itself. The bridge...
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