The Wistful Grid
The first letter was written on a sheet of parchment that smelled faintly of damp earth and old bones. Marguerite sat at the kitchen table in her small cottage on the edge of the town of Oakhaven, the ink drying on the nib of her quill as she watched the rain streak the windowpanes. She was not writing to a friend, nor to a lover, but to the Council of Public Health, a body of men in grey coats...
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