The Wistful Crossroads
The roof gave way before the rain did. It peeled back like the skin of a bruised fruit, revealing the black sky above and the white snow below. I stood in the center of the hall, my breath catching in my throat, as the beams groaned and splintered. The dust was thick. It tasted of iron and old ash. My friend, Silas, stood beside me. He did not move. He watched the collapse with the stillness of...
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