The Wistful Crossroads
The rain in the city did not fall so much as it hovered, a fine, gray mist that clung to the wool of coats and the hair of the dead, eroding the sharp edges of the world until everything looked soft and indistinct, like a memory of a memory. Elias Thorne walked through this suspended atmosphere, his hands deep in the pockets of a coat that had seen better decades, feeling the cold seep into his...
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