The Wistful Letter
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a silence so profound it shattered the glass of the factory windows, and in that void you stood, the soot of the old textile mill clinging to the skin of your face like a second, heavier soul, watching the black smoke coil upward into a sky that had forgotten the color of day. You are Elias Thorne, or at least you were, a man whose life had been a...
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