The Wistful Letter
The rain against the windowpane of the interrogation room did not sound like water. It sounded like static, a low, electric hum that seeped into your bones and settled there, cold and persistent. You sat in the metal chair, the one with the armrests worn smooth by decades of nervous hands, and you watched the condensation trace a path down the glass. It was a path of no return. Outside, the...
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