The Wistful Grid
The ink on the page is still wet, a dark bruise blooming in the pale light of the attic room, and you are writing to him because there is no one else left who understands the weight of the silence between you two. You remember the day you left the house, the way the frost crunched under your boots as you walked away from the smokestacks of the Whitmore Textile Mill, the air thick with the smell...
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