The Wistful Crossroads
The ink on the ledger was still wet when you noticed the smell, a sharp, metallic tang that cut through the dust of the archive room and settled in the back of your throat like a swallowed coin. You were Margaret Holloway, or at least you were the name stitched into the hem of your grey wool dress, a name that felt less like an identity and more like a barcode scanned by the silent, towering...
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