The Wistful Letter
You are standing on the porch of the house that was yours, or at least it was, until the letter arrived. The air in Harrowgate is thick, heavy with the scent of wet pine and the metallic tang of the coming storm, a sensation that presses against your skin like a damp wool blanket. You hold the envelope in your hand, the paper soft and yielding, stained with a dark, viscous stain that you refuse...
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