The Wistful Letter
The wind outside the outpost did not howl; it screamed, a thin, high-pitched shriek that seemed to drill directly into the base of Elias Thorne’s skull. He sat at the steel desk, the metal cold against his palms, and stared at the pen in his hand as if it were a foreign object. The date, March 14, 2024, was scrawled at the top of the page in jagged, uneven lines. His lungs were a cage of broken...
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