The Wistful Grid
The ink on the quill was thick and black, staining the nib with a viscosity that Arthur Penhaligon found oddly comforting, a tangible weight against the lightness of the air in the mill office where he sat, his fingers wrapped around a cold mug of tea that had long since gone bitter. Outside the window, the river known locally as the Wistful Grid churned with a grey, silt-heavy current, and on...
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