The Wistful Crossroads
The ink was still wet on the skin of his right hand, a dark, viscous bloom that had seeped through the layers of the heavy velvet cuff and settled into the creases of his knuckles like a secret he had never intended to keep, and as he lay suspended in the liminal grey haze of the dream, Professor Elias Thorne found himself standing not in the sterile, humming quiet of his university office, but...
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