The Wistful Crossroads
"You are late again, Thomas." The voice did not come from outside the door. It came from the grain of the oak itself. Thomas stood in the hallway. He pressed his back against the wood. It was warm. It hummed. "I am here," he said. The wood shuddered. Thomas was not a man. Not anymore. He had been a man once. That was a long time ago. The years had stripped him. They had taken his skin. They had...
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