The Wistful Letter
The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in a steady, grey curtain over the moor, blurring the horizon until the sky and the earth became a single, indistinct mass of wet wool. Elias Thorne walked. His boots were heavy with mud, caking the leather into a stiff, dark shell that echoed with every step. He did not look up. To look up was to admit that the path ahead was empty, and if it...
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