The Wistful Crossroads
The fog did not roll in so much as it erupted, a violent white exhalation from the mouth of the iron bridge that straddled the chasm of the industrial valley, swallowing the rusted railings and the gas lamps in a single, suffocating breath. Elias Vane stood on the precipice of the crossing, his hand tightened around the hilt of a walking stick that served no other purpose than to remind him he...
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