The Wistful Crossroads
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey curtain that turned the rural checkpoint into a room without walls. Elias Thorne stood alone in the mud, his boots sinking with each slow step, the weight of his service jacket heavy with water and the invisible accumulation of twenty years of duty. He was forty-five, a man whose face had been smoothed by years of routine and whose...
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