The Wistful Crossroads
The brass is already thin where your thumb has worn it. You hold the compass tight in your left hand, the metal cold and slick with the sweat of your grip, while your right hand pulls the heavy wool coat over your shoulders. The air in the yard smells of wet coal ash and the metallic tang of the morning fog, a scent that has seeped into your clothes so deeply you no longer notice it, only feel...
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