The Wistful Crossroads
The ink bled into the skin of my thumb before I realized the pen was hot, the nib scraping against the vellum with a sound like a fingernail dragging across a chalkboard. I was trying to write *Mara* again, the letters forming in the air before they vanished, leaving only the smell of burnt hair and ozone in the cramped, windowless office where the ledger lay open like a wound. It was the third...
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