The Wistful Letter
Arthur, you’re bleeding. The sound of the trowel scraping against the lead came before the sight of it, a harsh, metallic shriek that cut through the damp silence of the chapel. Arthur pulled his hand back, the skin of his thumb torn and red, the blood welling up with a warm, wet pressure that felt alien against the cold glass. He stared at the drop of crimson falling from his knuckle, watching...
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