The Wistful Grid
12th of October, 1893. The rain has not stopped for three days. It drums against the windowpane. A steady, gray rhythm. I write by the light of a tallow candle. The flame flickers. It is cold in the room. Cold in the house. I wear my greatcoat. It is heavy. The wool itches. I am still here. I am still in the study. My father’s study. The door is locked. The key is in my pocket. I feel its...
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