The Wistful Crossroads
The rain in the border town of Kettering did not wash things clean; it only made the mud stick to the soles of your boots, a cold, heavy paste that felt less like earth and more like the grave itself. You were forty years old, Elias Thorne, a man whose hands had once laid the tracks for the empire of iron and steam, but now they were merely tools for survival, trembling with a hunger that had...
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