The Wistful Letter
The rain lashed against the warped glass of the solicitor’s office, blurring the world outside into a smear of grey mud and dying leaves, while inside the air hung thick with the scent of damp wool, old paper, and the metallic tang of fear that seemed to seep from the very pores of the walls where the shadows pooled in the corners. Margaret stood by the window, her fingers digging into the...
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