The Wistful Crossroads
The ledger showed four hundred and twelve pounds in debt, a figure that sat in the margin like a bruise. I counted the coins in the tin box on the kitchen table, each one cold and heavy in my palm, knowing the arithmetic was already lost. The blight had taken the east row of apple trees, their leaves curling into brown fists that dropped onto the damp earth with a wet, final thud. I was...
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