The Wistful Ashes
My hand was trembling as I tried to steady the stylus against the wet surface of the letter, the ink bleeding into the cheap paper like a bruise forming under skin. I was writing to Mara, or rather, I was writing to the memory of her, because the girl in the Quiet Ward had not been the same child since the fog first rolled into Ostra and coated the windows of our apartment in a film of grey...
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