The Wistful Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended gray mist that clung to the stone walls of the University of St. Jude’s, a place that existed in the margins of maps and the fringes of sanity. Elias Thorne sat in his office, a windowless room that smelled of damp wool and old ink, staring at the single red mark on his own left hand. It was not a bruise, nor was it a birthmark. It was a...
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