The Wistful Letter
The rain smells of iron. It is a cold, metallic tang that coats the back of your throat. You swallow it down. You are wet. You are always wet. The mud of the court is thick, sucking at your boots with a rhythmic, wet pull. *Thwup. Thwup.* It sounds like a heart beating under the floorboards. You look up. The tower is black against the gray sky. The windows are slit-like, watching you. You feel...
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