The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-17 12:12:05 -

The iron kettle sang. It was a high, thin note. It cut the air. I sat at the table. My hands were still. They had been still for three days. The steam curled. It danced. It died. Outside, the rain fell. It hit the tin roof. It hammered. It screamed. "Thomas," I said. My voice was rough. It sounded like gravel. He looked up. His eyes were wide. They were dark. They were deep. "I am here," he...

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