The Wistful Letter
The clock on the wall of the regional archives in Harrowgate did not tick so much as it groaned, a heavy, rhythmic exhalation of rust and old oil that seemed to pull the air out of the room and hold it there, suspended in the dust motes dancing in the pale, sickly light that filtered through the high, barred windows. You sat at the long oak table, the surface scarred by decades of elbow rests...
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