The Wistful Crossroads
The letter lay on the desk, the paper brittle and yellowed with age, its ink faded to a ghostly violet that seemed to bleed into the fibers rather than sit upon them. I read it three times, my fingers trembling not from cold but from the sudden, violent heat radiating from the wisteria vine I had pulled from the pocket of my greatcoat. It was a formal notice from the Ministry of Internal...
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