The Wistful Letter
The fog did not lift. It thickened, turning the world into a gray, breathing thing. Elias Vane stood on the platform, his breath a small, white ghost escaping his lips. He held a coat. It was a heavy thing, woolen, dark as a bruise. It had belonged to his father. Now it hung on his arm, a dead weight. The train was late. The station master, a man with eyes like wet pebbles, nodded. He did not...
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