The Wistful Crossroads
The crossroads stood where five lanes of market town and two old country tracks agreed to disagree. It had no name the town would own. Mapmakers called it a junction and left it at that, the way one closes a book when the final page is the same as the second-to-last. I came to it on a grey afternoon in November and stood there until the damp settled into my coat and the rain began, because the...
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