The Wistful Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey, suspended mist that clung to the windows of the St. Jude’s Employment Office, turning the afternoon light into a bruised and swollen thing. You stood at the head of the long, varnished table, your hands flat against the wood, feeling the cold seep into your knuckles. The air smelled of wet wool, old paper, and the faint, metallic tang...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews