The Wistful Crossroads
The notice was pinned to the oak door of the customs house, its ink faded by the salt air and the damp that seeps into the walls of Valea every time the thaw sets in. It stated, in the dry, bureaucratic language of the central authority, that my request for a pension review had been deferred pending a full audit of my seal and ledger, a process that would take the better part of the winter. I...
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