The Wistful Crossroads
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that turned the streets of the industrial district into a slick, mirroring void, reflecting the soot-blackened facades of the factories where the air itself seemed to hang heavy with the scent of coal dust and wet iron. Elias Thorne sat in the center of his cramped office, a space that was less a room and more a sealed tomb of...
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