The Wistful Letter
The ink dries before the thought does. You press your thumb against the wet line, a dark smear blooming on the parchment, and watch it bleed into the fibers like a bruise forming under skin. It is a letter that has no recipient, a document that is its own destination. The room is a tomb of velvet and dust, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the metallic tang of fear. You are the...
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