The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-23 05:53:21 -

14 November 1893. I have counted the hours since the last whisper. Seven. The damp in these barracks is a physical weight, a wet wool blanket pressed against the skin, and it settles into the joints with a grinding persistence that no amount of brandy can warm away. I am writing this by the light of a tallow candle, the flame trembling in a draft that seems to come from the walls themselves,...

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