The Wistful Letter
The rain lashed against the high, narrow windows of St. Jude’s Orphanage, a relentless, hissing curtain that blurred the world outside into a smear of grey and black, while inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp wool, boiled cabbage, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Margaret Holloway stood in the center of the grand hall, her hands trembling so violently that the heavy iron key...
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