The Wistful Letter
The ink bled into the rough grain of the paper, a dark, spreading stain that looked uncomfortably like a bruise, and your hand, trembling with a cold that seemed to radiate from the marrow of your bones rather than the damp air of the cabin, pressed the nib so hard it nearly tore through the sheet as you wrote the date, October 14, 1893, and then the name, Mr. Gable, which you hated to write...
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