The Wistful Letter
The rain in Harrowgate did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors of a sky that had forgotten how to be blue. Thomas Bradshaw walked with the heavy, rhythmic cadence of a man whose bones had been set by duty and broken by time. He was a deputy sheriff, a title that held little weight in a town that had long since stopped fearing the law...
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