The Wistful Show
The snow falls in sheets, thick and white, erasing the road behind you. You are running. Your boots slip on the ice. The cold is a physical weight, pressing against your lungs, stealing the air from your chest. You are an exile. You are a ghost in your own life. In your hand, you grip the letter. It is crumpled, soaked through with sweat and snow. The paper is soft, weak, ready to tear. You do...
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