The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-19 02:08:50 -

The rain does not fall so much as it seeps, a cold, grey sweat that soaks through the wool of your coat and settles into the marrow of your bones, a persistent dampness that speaks of the old, forgotten things buried beneath the cobblestones of this impossible, breathing city. You are standing on the precipice of the Iron Bridge, the one that spans the Chasm of Sorrow, where the mist curls up...

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