The Wistful Crossroads
You are sitting in a room that smells of damp wool and boiled turnips, the air thick with the scent of industry and decay, and you are waiting for the meal that has not come. The walls are lined with shelves of glass jars, each containing a different shade of brown or grey, and the liquid inside them sloshes gently as if stirred by an unseen hand, a rhythm that matches the thrumming of the...
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