The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-22 05:27:20 -

I dreamed of the ink. It was black and wet, pooling in the creases of my knuckles. It smelled of iron and old rain. In the dream, I was not old. My hands were steady. I held the quill like a scalpel. I wrote a word. The paper drank it. The word did not exist. It was a ghost of a thing. A mark. A stain. I woke with the taste of rust on my tongue. The sun was low in the valley of Ashford. It was...

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