The Wistful Letter
The dried wisteria vine in your left hand is brittle, a brown twig no thicker than a sewing needle, yet you grip it as if it were a live thing that might snap. You are sitting in the drafty office of Blackwood Station, the fog pressing against the windowpanes like a living, hungry beast, and the smell of wet wool and old ink is thick in the air. Your name is Elias Thorne, you are thirty-four...
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