The Wistful Letter
The rain does not wash the town clean. It only makes the mud slicker, turning the cobblestones of the High Street into a mirror that reflects nothing but your own hollowed face. You stand on the porch of the municipal library, watching the grey sky bleed into the wet pavement. You are a cataloger. A clerk. A man who organizes the world into neat, card-indexed rows so that no one has to look...
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