The Wistful Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the sky, a cold, wet breath that seeped through the thin walls of my boarding house in the industrial district of Manchester, where the air was always thick with the scent of coal smoke and the distant, rhythmic thrum of the textile mills that ground the life out of the city’s bones. I sat alone in the small, damp room, the windowpane foggging...
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