The Wistful Crossroads
The voice came from the hallway, thin and reedy, cutting through the damp silence of the breakfast room. "Elias. Come here. Now." You drop the spoon. It hits the porcelain with a crack that sounds too loud, too final, in the heavy air. You stand, your knees stiff, and walk to the table where your father sits. He is a small man, but his presence fills the chair, a block of gray wool and rigid...
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