The Wistful Crossroads
The bell above the door rang. I did not move. The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of wet wool and old paper. Outside, the rain lashed against the high windows of the Ministry. It was a sound I knew well. A rhythm of siege. I sat behind the heavy oak desk. My hands were still. They had always been still. My mentor, Mr. Aldous Vane, stood by the window. He watched the grey street...
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