The Wistful Letter
The rain does not fall so much as it seeps, a cold, persistent weeping that soaks through the slate roof of Blackwood Hall and settles into the marrow of your bones. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a scribe whose hands are stained with ink and whose lungs are slowly filling with the rust-colored phlegm of a consumption that has no cure in this age of plague and prayer. You sit in the...
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