The Wistful Crossroads
The tremor begins in the heel of your right hand. It is not a spasm, nor a tic, but a low-frequency hum, like the idle of a distant diesel engine. You are sitting at the mahogany desk in the faculty lounge, the wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and ink stains. Outside, the rain strips the glass in long, grey streaks, blurring the view of the university quad. You are a senior lecturer in...
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