The Wistful Letter
The fog clung to the moors like a shroud. It was thick, gray, and smelled of wet stone and decay. I stood at the edge of the path, my breath visible in the cold air. The industrial age had swallowed this valley whole. Smokestacks pierced the clouds three miles east. They belched black tears into the sky. Here, in the shadow of the mill, the silence was heavy. It pressed against my ears. It...
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