The Wistful Letter
The iron bar of the gate shrieks against the frost, a sound like a bone snapping in a silent room, and you are already bleeding from the cut on your lip, the copper taste thick and ancient in your throat as you drag your body over the threshold of the sanctuary, the weight of the chain around your neck pulling at your clavicle, the cold air biting at your exposed skin not with the sharpness of...
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