The Wistful Letter
The iron gate groans as you pull it open, the sound dragging a long, jagged tear through the silence of the courtyard, and you step into a space that does not belong to any calendar, a place where the fog is thick enough to taste and the air hums with a low-frequency vibration that settles in your molars. You are wearing the uniform of the Constabulary, though the fabric feels less like wool...
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