The Wistful Grid
Vienna, October 14, 1892 My Dearest Clara, The air in this workshop tastes of metal and old dust, a flavor that has settled into my lungs so deeply I no longer notice it, yet today it feels thick, as if the very oxygen is resisting my breath. I write to you by the light of a single gas lamp, the flame trembling in a draft that seems to seep from the walls themselves, carrying with it the ghosts...
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