The Wistful Crossroads
Athol Rollo walked the salt flats with a knife in his hand, the blade dull from use, his boots sinking into the white crust that crunched like broken teeth under the weight of his desperation. The wind tore at his cloak, a constant, high-pitched whine in the wires that no longer existed, a sound that felt like a warning he had already ignored. He was thirty-two years old, and his sister, Morag,...
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