The Wistful Crossroads
You arrive at the estate of Silas Vane on a Tuesday, though the day of the week feels irrelevant in the gray, suspended air of the valley. The car is parked a hundred yards back, the engine ticking as it cools, because the gravel drive has turned into a slurry of mud that threatens to swallow the tires whole. You walk the last stretch with your briefcase held tight against your chest, the...
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