The Wistful Grid
The first letter was written in ink that had dried to the color of old bruises, the script cramped and frantic, scrawled on the back of a bill for linens that no longer existed. I found it tucked inside the binding of a treatise on humoral theory, a book I had purchased from a estate sale in the village of Oakhaven, a place where the mist clings to the valley floor like a shroud that refuses to...
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