The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-18 00:15:21 -

The banquet hall smells of boiled cabbage and old sweat. It is a smell that has seeped into the plaster, into the floorboards, into the very air you breathe. You sit at the head of the long oak table. The candles are guttering. The wax drips like slow blood. You are Colonel James Whitmore. You have been sitting here for three days. Or perhaps it has been three years. Time has become a fluid...

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