The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-19 20:33:53 -

The rain tapped against the single pane of glass in the watchtower, a rhythmic, hollow sound that had become the only clock Thomas knew. He sat in the dark, the air thick with the smell of wet wool and the stale smoke of the pipe he no longer smoked. His hands rested on his knees, knuckles swollen, the skin thin and papery over the bone. For forty years, these hands had held a rifle. Now they...

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