The Wistful Letter
In the dream, the ink did not dry; it swelled, black and viscous as a wound, spreading across the parchment in tendrils that reached out to grasp the fingers of the man who wrote it, binding his hands to the page so that he could not tear it away, could not stop the confession that bled from the nib, a testament to a violence that was not yet committed but was already felt in the marrow, a...
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