The Wistful Grid
The letter was found in the coat pocket of the man who had not spoken in three years. It was not written to him, but by him, dated four days after the day he had walked away from the table where his family sat. The ink was still fresh, a dark blue that seemed to bleed slightly into the cheap paper, as if the hand that held the pen had trembled with a fever that had long since broken. It was a...
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