The Wistful Crossroads
The rain fell upon the cobblestones of Oakhaven with the persistent, rhythmic insistence of a clock counting down to a catastrophe that had not yet been named. Elias Thorne walked with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his wool overcoat, the fabric slick and heavy with the dampness that seemed to seep into the very marrow of the city. He was a man who lived in the spaces between words, a...
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