The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-17 13:30:27 -

The rain did not fall. It hung. A grey, heavy mist clung to the iron rails of the bridge. It tasted of rust and old coal. Silas stood at the edge. His boots were wet. The water seeped into the leather. Cold. A biting cold. He was twelve. Or perhaps thirteen. Time had grown thick here. It moved like syrup. He could not tell the days apart. Behind him, the train screamed. It was a monster of...

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