The Faded Frontier

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2026-08-21 21:50:41 -

The ink is still wet. You can feel the dampness of it seeping into the grain of the oak table, a cold, sticky residue that smells of iron and old blood. You look at your hands. They are stained purple to the wrists. The letter lies open before you. It is not a letter. It is a map. Or perhaps a confession. The words are yours, or they are not. You cannot remember writing them. You remember the...

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