The Wistful Crossroads
The pen slipped from Elias Thorne’s fingers, hitting the oak desk with a dull, wet thud that seemed to echo in the hollow of his skull. He stared at the smudge of ink bleeding into the parchment, a dark bruise spreading across the signature line of the deed, and tried to steady his hand, but the tremor in his wrist was a separate thing, a vibration that had nothing to do with the cold air of...
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