The Wistful Crossroads
The rain in Harrow’s End does not wash things clean; it merely saturates the grime, making the dirt slick and treacherous, a mirror that reflects only the bruised purple of the sky and the jagged, broken teeth of the houses that line the single, winding road which serves as the sole artery of this forgotten corner of the world. You are standing at the crossroads, or what passes for one here, a...
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