The Wistful Letter
The iron is still warm, humming with a low, visceral frequency that you can feel in your teeth before you hear it in the air. You stand on the precipice of the cliff, the wind tearing at the heavy wool of your coat, a garment that has seen better decades, better wars, better men. In your hands, you hold the object that has defined the last six years of your existence: a letter, folded into a...
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