The Wistful Letter
The iron gate is cold. It bites into your palm. You remember the frost. The weight of the rifle. The silence. You are in the corridor. The carpet is red. It is old. It is thick. It swallows your boots. You walk. The walls are tall. The windows are high. They are barred. Light comes in. It is grey. It is thin. It cuts the dust. You are a guard. You are a man. You are the law. Or you think you...
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