The Wistful Grid
The rejection letter arrived on a Tuesday, smelling faintly of the damp wool that had wrapped it in the postman’s satchel. It was not a refusal of character, but a refusal of soul, the paper thick and cream-colored, the ink a stark, bureaucratic black that seemed to bite into the wood of the parlor table. Thomas Vane, twelve years old and sharp-eyed as a hawk, read the words "insufficient moral...
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