The Wistful Letter
The letter sat on the kitchen table. It was yellowed, the paper thin as onion skin. Elias held it in his left hand. His right hand rested on the cold countertop. The rain hit the window. It sounded like static. He had lived in this city for ten years. Ten years since the ship. Ten years since he left the old world behind. He had changed his name. He had learned the language. He had found work...
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