The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-17 21:29:15 -

The rain does not fall here. It seeps. You stand in the corridor of the Department of Corrections, Level 4. The air is thick, saturated with the scent of wet wool and old copper. Your hands are clasped behind your back. The leather of your cuffs bites into the skin. You do not feel pain. You feel a strange, cold clarity, as if the fog in your mind has finally burned away, leaving only the bare,...

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