The Wistful Grid
The letter sits on the desk, the paper thin as a veil, the ink bleeding slightly into the fibers where the rain from your window has seeped through the glass. You remember the day you wrote it, or perhaps the day you broke the thing. It is hard to tell anymore. The years here do not move in a line; they spiral, tightening around your throat like a noose made of memory. You are a soldier still,...
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