The Wistful Letter
The pen was heavy in Arthur Vane’s hand, the nib catching on the fiber of the paper as he tried to form the word *leave*. It was a small, mechanical failure, but it felt like a fracture in the bone. Outside the window of the foreman’s office, the wind did not howl; it ground, a low, continuous screech of stone on stone that had replaced the natural sounds of the valley three years ago. Arthur...
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