The Wistful Crossroads
The willow tree in the courtyard had been there before the building, and it would be there after. Its branches did not sway with the wind; they hung with the heavy, static persistence of wet wool, trapping the fog that rolled in from the river every evening. Elias Vane woke in his office, his cheek pressed against the cold surface of his mahogany desk. He was not dreaming. He was simply...
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