The Wistful Crossroads
The demolition order sat on the kitchen table, a sheet of heavy cream paper that weighed more than the silence in the room. You, Elias Thorne, forty-two, adjusted your glasses, the lenses fogging slightly as your hands trembled against the edge of the oak table. The palsy had started six months ago, a fine, rhythmic shiver that made pouring coffee a humiliation and signing your name a struggle....
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