The Wistful Letter
1893, November 14th. The ink on the page is still wet, a dark, viscous pool that seems to absorb the light of the tallow candle rather than reflect it, and as I press my quill to the parchment to address the void where your name should be, the heat begins again, a sudden, searing prickle that climbs from the tip of my fingers up to my wrist, a burning that has no source in the physical world...
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