The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-22 12:47:43 -

The mud sucked at Elias Thorne’s boots with a wet, tearing sound that echoed in his ears louder than the distant artillery. He stood in the trench, thirty-four years old, his hands trembling as he fumbled with the clasp of the silver locket around his neck. The metal was cold, slick with the rain that had fallen all night, and he could not make the small hook catch. It slipped, fell back...

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