The Wistful Letter
"Is it dead?" The question hung in the air. Cold. Sharp. It came from the window. Elias turned. His back ached. The leather was stiff. He had been working for hours. The stitching was tight. The grain was smooth. He looked at the bird. It was a raven. It sat on the sill. One eye was clouded. A milky cataract. The other was black. Wet. Deep. It blinked. Slowly. Elias did not answer. He picked up...
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