The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-18 10:36:27 -

The fog rolls in thick, tasting of salt and old iron. You stand at the edge of the city, where the cobblestones give way to the mud of the riverbank. It is night, or something like it. The sky is a bruised purple, swollen with stars that do not twinkle but burn, static and cold. You are Margaret. You are not sure why you know this name, but it fits the mouth, heavy and worn like a stone. Beside...

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