The Wistful Crossroads
The rain did not fall. It hovered. Mara stood by the window of the stone cell. The air was thick with the scent of wet moss and old iron. Outside, the gray sky pressed against the glass like a wet cloth. She watched the droplets. They did not drop. They hung in the air, suspended, trembling. Time had stopped here. It had stopped for three days. Or perhaps three centuries. It was hard to tell....
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