The Wistful Letter
The fire did not roar, but it ate the world with a slow, wet hunger, and you felt the heat on the back of your neck before you saw the smoke curling from the thatch of the old infirmary, a black vein pulsing against the pale, bruised sky of the mid-morning. You stood at the edge of the muddy track, your boots sinking into the soft earth that had been trodden by countless feet over the last...
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