The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-18 20:51:02 -

The hand was gone. Not severed. Not lost. Simply absent. Edmund stood on the bridge. The wood groaned under his boots. Below, the river churned, black and swift. It smelled of iron and rot. He looked at his left side. Empty air. Where the flesh should have been, there was only a smooth, pale stump. No blood. No bone. Just a soft, white edge, like a cut of butter. He touched it. It was warm. He...

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