The Wistful Letter
The rain had not ceased for three days, turning the gutters of the Whitmore Industrial Textile Mill into churning rivers of slate-gray sludge that reflected the sickly amber glow of the sodium-vapor lamps, a light that seemed to penetrate the very marrow of the stone walls and the cheap, synthetic fibers spun within them, creating a pervasive atmosphere of damp, inescapable decay that clung to...
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