The Wistful Crossroads
The ink on the stamp was blue, a specific shade of cerulean that seemed to bleed slightly into the dry, cream-colored paper of the resignation letter. I held it between my thumb and forefinger, the metal cold against my skin, and watched the droplet swell. It did not fall. It hovered, defying gravity, a tiny, trembling universe of liquid pigment. This was the first thing that happened when the...
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