The Wistful Crossroads
The porcelain cup shattered not with a sound, but with a silence that sucked the air out of the room, leaving behind only the jagged white shards scattered across the mahogany floor like broken teeth. Margaret Ashworth stood in the center of the Grand Hall, her hands still raised as if she had just caught a falling bird, and watched the pieces settle. The liquid, a dark viscous syrup that...
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