The Wistful Crossroads
The coffee was black. It sat in a chipped ceramic mug on the counter, the surface trembling with a micro-vibration that had nothing to do with the traffic outside. Sergeant Elias Thorne watched the liquid. It was thick, viscous, a dark mirror. He held the mug. His knuckles were white. The steam rose in a single, coherent column, refusing to dissipate into the stale air of the precinct’s break...
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