The Wistful Letter
The iron gates of Blackwood Penitentiary did not creak; they screamed, a high, metallic shriek that tore through the thick, fog-laden air of the industrial district, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of Thomas Bradshaw’s bones. He stood at the center of the quadrangle, a solitary figure in the grey stone courtyard, his uniform immaculate despite the grime that coated his boots and...
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