The Wistful Letter
The rain lashed the glass. It was a blind, furious thing. I held the fern. Its fronds were dark and wet. They wept onto my coat. I did not care. The air smelled of rot and iron. We were moving. We had to move. Sir Elias stood at the head of the line. He walked with a limp. His face was stone. I followed him. The others trailed behind. We were a shadow in the mist. The path was narrow. It cut...
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