The Wistful Crossroads
The carriage wheels ground against the iron tracks with a shriek that seemed to tear the fabric of the evening sky, pulling Elara forward not by steam or horsepower but by a gravity that lived in the marrow of her bones, a weight that had been accumulating since the day she was born in the soot-choked nursery of the Whitmore Mill. The air inside the closed carriage was thick, heavy with the...
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