The Wistful Letter
The fog had settled into the valley of Ashworth Hollow with a density that felt less like weather and more like a physical substance, a grey wool that choked the lungs and muffled the sharp, crystalline sounds of the world into a dull, wet thud. I stood on the edge of the precipice, my boots sinking into the mud that clung to the roots of the ancient yews, watching the mist curl around my...
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