The Wistful Crossroads
The rain did not fall so much as it persisted, a grey, relentless veil that smothered the iron-grey facade of the Old Meridian Barracks, a structure so ancient and so deeply embedded in the bedrock of the valley that it seemed less a building constructed by human hands and more a geological formation that had simply decided, centuries ago, to possess a roof and windows. Inside, the air was...
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