The Wistful Crossroads
The iron is cold. It bites into your wrists. You stand in the center of the town square. The cobblestones are slick with rain and old mud. Above you, the gas lamps flicker, casting long, trembling shadows that stretch across the wet pavement like grasping fingers. You are not a ghost. You are not a dream. You are a man in chains, and the chains are real. The crowd is silent. They do not cheer....
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