The Wistful Letter
The dream was always the same: a black iron gate, rusted and weeping, standing alone in a field of ash. Elias Thorne woke with the taste of ozone in his mouth, his hands already trembling against the sheets. He was forty-two, a border patrol agent with twenty years of service, and he wanted only to walk away before the tremors took the rest of him. The draft in the room was cold, a physical...
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