The Wistful Letter
The ledger showed four hundred and twelve stitches required to close the tear in the veil. I counted them out on my fingers, the cold damp of the mill town seeping through the wool of my gloves, as I prepared the silk. It was a fine day for work, or so the foreman claimed, but the fog in Blackwood had a weight to it, a physical pressure that made the lungs ache with every breath. My sister,...
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