The Wistful Crossroads
The rain hits the stone. It is cold. It is wet. You stand at the gate. The gate is iron. It is black. It is old. The rain runs down the bars. It runs down your hand. You let go. You step back. The gate closes. The sound is heavy. It is final. You are inside. You are alone. The hall is vast. The ceiling is high. The light is dim. It comes from oil lamps. The flames flicker. They dance in the...
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