The Wistful Crossroads
The frost had not yet melted from the cobblestones of Harrowgate Street when I noticed the fern. It grew from the crack in the iron fence, a single, pale frond unfurling against the grey morning. It was a common species, *Polystichum*, but to me it looked like a wound that refused to close. I worked at the textile mill, a place where the air was thick with cotton dust and the sound of the looms...
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