The Wistful Crossroads
The road you take is not paved with stone, but with the shifting, iridescent scales of a river that has forgotten its banks. You walk it in a heavy wool coat, the fabric stiff with the damp chill of a world that exists only between the breaths of the living. You are a cobbler, or so you have always been, and your hands are mapped with the white scars of the awl and the needle, tools that once...
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