The Wistful Letter
Your hand trembles as you press the nib into the wet, yellowed paper, the ink bleeding slightly into the fibers like a bruise forming under skin. It is the fourteenth of November, and the wind outside the outpost window has a weight to it, a physical pressure that rattles the single pane of glass and sends a shiver of dust cascading from the high, soot-blackened beams of the ceiling. You are...
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