The Wistful Letter
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the world until the house itself seemed to be dissolving into the wet earth, and within that suffocating dampness, Elias Thorne sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the hand that rested on his knee as if it belonged to a stranger. It was a large hand, once broad and steady, capable of gripping a...
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