The Wistful Crossroads
The ink on the ledger page did not sit still; it writhed like a colony of black beetles, spreading its tendrils across the date of 1912 until the year itself seemed to dissolve into a smear of rot. Elias Thorne adjusted his spectacles, the lenses fogging in the damp chill of the archive room, and tried to focus on the signature of the late King, but the letters had detached themselves from the...
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