The Wistful Crossroads
The ledger fell open on the desk, the spine cracking with a sound like a dry branch snapping in a winter forest. Elias Vane stared at the entry, his breath caught in his throat, the ink black and unforgiving against the yellowed paper. It was a simple line item, dated three years before his father’s death, but the amount was staggering, and the payee was a private institution in the hills, one...
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