The Wistful Letter
The fog in the city did not merely obscure the streets; it seemed to seep into the walls, a damp, grey exhalation that coated the inside of Elias Thorne’s lungs with a taste of rust and old stone. He sat at the warped wooden table in his cramped apartment, the paper before him trembling not from the cold, but from the weight of the debt that had swallowed his brother’s final days. The pension,...
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