The Wistful Crossroads
The coal dust in the parlor of Vane House had settled into a fine, grey silt that coated the floorboards and the spines of the rotting books, a testament to the slow, suffocating decay that had taken hold of the estate since Arthur’s death three winters prior. Elara Vane stood by the window, her hands gripping the sill until her knuckles turned white, watching the bare branches of the ancient...
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