The Wistful Crossroads
The frost did not merely settle upon the windowpanes of the moving van; it seemed to breathe, a slow, crystalline exhalation that turned the glass into a fractured mosaic of white and grey, obscuring the road ahead and the world behind in equal measure, as if the act of leaving were a violent severing of the membrane between what was and what would be, and Elias Thorne sat in the driver’s seat...
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