The Wistful Crossroads
The dust in the hallway is thick, a suspended galaxy of amber and grey that hangs in the slanted light of the afternoon, undisturbed by the breath of any living soul, and you stand in the center of it, holding the brass key in your palm as if it were a hot coal, feeling the heat of its metal bleed into the skin of your hand, a physical reminder of the weight of the office you have just vacated...
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