The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-20 07:32:54 -

The leather of my gloves was cracked. It had been for years. I wore them every day, in the cold and the heat, until the hide became a second skin, stiff and yellowed like old parchment. They were not just gloves. They were the only proof I had of my hands, and my hands were the only tools I possessed in the quiet, decaying village of Ashworth. I lived in the shadow of the old mill. The stones...

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