The Wistful Crossroads
I woke with the taste of copper and wet ash in my mouth, the sensation so vivid and metallic that I could almost count the granules of rust dissolving on my tongue, a phantom flavor that persisted long after I had washed my face with water that was already turning the color of weak tea, the mirror above the sink cracked in a spiderweb pattern that seemed to pulse in time with the erratic...
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