The Wistful Letter
The castle was not built of stone, but of the accumulated silence of the dead. It stood on the edge of the city, a jagged tooth against the grey sky, its walls humming with a low, subterranean frequency that I felt in my teeth before I saw it. I was leaving. That was the fact. The separation had been negotiated, the terms agreed upon in the cold, sterile light of the lower halls. I carried no...
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