The Wistful Letter
The rain lashed against the slate roof of the St. Jude’s Orphanage, a relentless, percussive drumming that seemed to vibrate through the very marrow of the floorboards, a sound that had long since ceased to be mere weather and had become the rhythmic heartbeat of their confinement. Thomas sat in the corner of the common room, his back rigid against the damp wood, his hands resting on his knees,...
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