The Wistful Letter
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the Appalachian foothills into a landscape of dissolving slate and wet moss. I sat in the passenger seat of my marked sedan, the engine idling with a low, mechanical hum that vibrated through the floorboards and into the soles of my boots. The air inside the car smelled of stale coffee, damp wool, and the metallic...
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