The Wistful Letter
The rain didn’t fall; it hung. It sat on the windowpanes of the safehouse in the Scottish Highlands like a gray cataract, blurring the world into a smear of heather and stone. I rubbed my left hand. It was the only part of me that still felt like mine. The skin was cool, dry, and stubbornly human, while the rest of me had begun to hum with a frequency that matched the static on the radio. I had...
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