The Wistful Crossroads
The iron gates of the manor were not merely closed; they were a wound in the landscape, a jagged scar of black metal that separated the manicured, silent gardens from the chaotic, wind-scoured heath beyond. Thomas Whitmore stood on the threshold, his hands trembling not from the cold, which had long since become a familiar, dull ache in his bones, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the...
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