The Wistful Crossroads
You are pressing the seal onto the envelope with a thumbnail that has begun to flake, the skin peeling away in dry, brittle curls that smell of iron and old dust. It is November, 1912, and the air in the city of Oakhaven is thick with coal smoke that settles in the creases of your knuckles, but the real weight is in the paper you hold, a single sheet of heavy stock that feels warm against your...
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