The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-24 00:33:48 -

The mist did not smell of rot, as one might expect from a house left to its own devices for twenty years, but of wet wool and old iron filings, a scent that clung to the back of the throat and refused to be expelled. I stood before the gate of Blackwood Hall, the iron bars of the portcullis rusted into a lattice of orange and brown, and waited for my brother Thomas to open it. He was younger...

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