The Wistful Crossroads
The glass did not shatter so much as it exhaled, a long, shuddering sigh of crystalline dust that settled upon the shoulders of Elias Thorne as he stood in the center of the rain-slicked intersection, his hands raised not in defense but in a gesture of absolute surrender to the weight of the sky. The streetlamp above him, a brutalist fixture of iron and cold light, had been his anchor for forty...
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