The Pale Letter
The sleet lashed against the single pane of the telegraph office window, blurring the grey expanse of the moor into a churning, formless sea of mud and heather. I sat at the heavy oak desk, my fingers hovering over the brass keys, trembling not from the cold that seeped through the wool of my coat, but from the weight of the paper beneath them. It was a dispatch, short and brutal, destined for...
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