The Wistful Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it suspended itself, a fine, gray mist that clung to the wet cobblestones of the dockside and the rusted iron of the crane, creating a boundary between the world I knew and the one I was leaving behind. I stood at the edge of the pier, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my heavy wool coat, the fabric damp and heavy against my skin, feeling the cold seep...
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