The Wistful Grid
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, slipped beneath the heavy oak door of the sanctuary before the morning shift began. It was from Elias, the younger brother, written in a hand that trembled slightly, as if the pen had been a burden he could barely hold. Inside the envelope was not just paper, but a small, square object wrapped in muslin. It was a piece of his own skin, or so it seemed. A patch...
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