The Wistful Letter
The brass button sits on the mahogany desk, a small, cold disc of tarnished metal that catches the single beam of light piercing the rain-lashed window of the townhouse, and you pick it up, your fingers trembling with a precision that feels less like control and more like the spasm of a dying muscle, as you trace the engraved insignia of the Military Police with a lens and a magnifier,...
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