The Wistful Crossroads
The rain began to fall in heavy, cold sheets, turning the cobblestones of Oakhaven into slick mirrors of gray. I stood at the edge of the river, my boots soaking through, watching the old mill groan under the weight of the rising water. It was not a sound of wood and stone; it was a low, rhythmic thump, deep in my chest, matching the beat of my own heart with a terrifying precision. I had...
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