The Wistful Crossroads
The rain in the Foundry district did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into black mirrors that reflected the smoke from the chimneys. Silas Vane stood at the edge of the platform, his boots caked in the red clay that clung to the town’s bones. He was a man who had spent thirty years enforcing the silence of the night shift, a constable in a city...
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