The Wistful Crossroads
The wind off the harbor smelled of rust and diesel, a gritty tang that coated the back of the throat. "Miller! You there, Miller?" The voice was a crackle of static through the headset, sharp and impatient. Sergeant Elias Miller stood in the center of the intersection, his hand resting on the cold, splintered edge of the patrol car’s door. The metal was pitted, worn smooth by years of rain and...
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