The Wistful Letter
The letter was still warm in your hand, the paper soft from the heat of your palm, and you knew, with a certainty that felt like a physical blow to the center of your chest, that it was the last thing you would ever write. You stood in the center of the Great Hall, the marble floor cold and unyielding beneath your boots, the air thick with the scent of old dust and impending violence. Around...
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