The Wistful Letter
The rain in the city of Varenna did not wash things clean; it only made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into treacherous mirrors of the rot above. Elias Thorne sat in the corner of the tavern, the wood of the table stained with the rings of a hundred forgotten beers, and his hand trembled as he uncapped the inkwell. He was thirty-two years old, a scribe by trade and a beggar by...
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