The Wistful Crossroads
The road was not a path but a wound in the earth, a jagged scar of red clay that stretched endlessly into the mist, and Silas Vane walked it with the heavy, rhythmic gait of a man who had forgotten the weight of his own feet. He was a traveler, though he carried no luggage save for the ink-stained fingers and the hollow ache in his chest that beat in time with the drum of the approaching storm....
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