The Wistful Crossroads
The rain had not ceased for forty days, a grey, persistent shroud that blurred the sharp edges of the university’s sandstone spires into a watercolor smear of grief and decay. Inside the hushed, candlelit chambers of the Archivist’s Hall, Elias Thorne sat hunched over a desk of ancient oak, his fingers trembling slightly as they traced the spine of a book that seemed to breathe. It was not...
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