The Wistful Letter
The letter arrived on a Tuesday in November, the ink already smudged by dampness, bearing the faint, cloying scent of overripe fruit that had haunted Arthur Penhaligon’s dreams for three weeks. He sat in his cramped, gas-lit study in London, the shadows of his bookshelves stretching long and distorted against the wallpaper, and read the single, trembling line from his brother Julian: *I am...
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