The Wistful Letter
The rain had been falling for three days, a grey, relentless curtain that turned the world outside the window of the Old Mill House into a smear of mud and dying leaves. I sat at the table, my hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold, watching the water drip from the eaves into the stagnant pool below. The house was silent, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in...
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