The Wistful Grid
October 14, 1893 Saint Jude’s Monastery, The Highlands My dearest Clara, I write to you by the light of a tallow candle that sputters and dies, only to be relit by the trembling fingers of a man who is slowly ceasing to be solid. The air here tastes of copper, a metallic tang that coats the back of my throat and settles in the lungs like a fine, rusty powder. I have just coughed into my...
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