The Wistful Letter
The glass is cracking, Elias. Do you see it? I have written this down before, but the ink smudges when my hands tremble, and I am afraid that if I do not record the exact sequence of events, the world will decide I am merely a madman who lost his mind in a cellar. It is the fourteenth of October, 1893, and I am forty-two years old. For twenty years, I have been a glassblower of some repute in...
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