The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-20 04:55:59 -

The dream began with the rain. Not the soft, romantic drizzle of ballads, but a heavy, ceaseless drumming against the leaded glass of the high window. It sounded like fingernails tapping on a coffin lid. Waking, I found the room cold. The air tasted of damp stone and old iron. I was not in my bed. I was not in any bed I had ever known. I sat up. The sheets were rough, coarse linen that chafed...

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