The Wistful Crossroads
The rain against the slate roof was not a sound, but a pressure, a heavy, rhythmic thudding that seemed to come from inside the walls of the manor itself, pressing against my skull until I could no longer distinguish the wet cold of the night from the dry heat of my own blood. I sat in the high-backed chair by the dying fire, my hands clasped so tightly that the knuckles had turned the color of...
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