The Wistful Letter
The cold is not in the air. It is in the bone. You feel it first in your left hand, the one that holds the flashlight, the one that has always trembled slightly when the pressure drops. It is November, though the year is a blur of grey days and grey walls. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two, and you are dying, or so the doctors say. They say your heart is a tired engine, sputtering. They say you...
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