The Wistful Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey veil that turned the cobblestones of Harrow’s End into slick, black mirrors reflecting the fractured neon of the shuttered shop windows. Elias Thorne walked with a gait that had long since forgotten the rhythm of leisure, his boots striking the wet pavement with a dull, rhythmic thud that seemed to echo in the hollows of his...
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