The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-23 07:20:20 -

14 November, 1898. The ink is still wet on the requisition form, a dark smear against the cheap, yellowed paper, and my hand does not stop shaking as I fold it into the envelope. Outside, the wind is stripping the last leaves from the poplars that line the border fence, that long, rusted wire that defines everything I am allowed to be and everything I am forbidden to want. I am writing to you,...

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