The Wistful Crossroads
I need you to understand that I am not asking for a favor, I am asking for my sister’s life, but the chancellor’s pen hovered over the ledger like a bird deciding whether to land, the tip dry and scratching against the grain of the paper. The air in the office smelled of stale tobacco and the metallic tang of old blood, a scent that clung to the velvet drapes and settled in the back of my...
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