The Wistful Letter
The wind off the moors did not howl, not really; it whispered, a dry, rasping sound like dead leaves skittering over pavement, a sound that Maud had come to associate with the hollow ache in her own chest, a persistent, grinding rhythm that mimicked the turning of the earth and the slow, inevitable erosion of everything she had ever held dear. She stood at the edge of the property, where the...
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