The Wistful Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey curtain that turned the village of Oakhaven into a watercolor left out in the damp, where the edges of the cobblestones blurred into the mud and the shadows of the gorse bushes stretched out like long, grasping fingers. In the narrow, crooked house that leaned against the cliff face, Thomas Whittaker sat at the window, his fingers...
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