The Wistful Letter
The porcelain shard cuts into the soft flesh of your thumb, a bright, red punctuation mark in the monochrome landscape of the cellar, and you do not flinch, because you have long since mastered the art of enduring pain without the distraction of screaming. You are standing in the basement of the old Harrowgate Institute, a place that smells of damp earth, rotting paper, and the metallic tang of...
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