The Wistful Crossroads
The rain had not yet begun to fall, but the air in the county clerk’s office was thick with the smell of damp wool and old paper, a scent that seemed to settle into the pores of my skin before I even reached the counter. Elias Thorne, the name was called out by the clerk, not with malice but with a weary precision that cut deeper than any shout, and I stood there, my hands trembling slightly as...
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