The Wistful Letter
The harbor at Salo was a place of rusted iron and wet stone, where the fog did not lift so much as thicken until the water itself seemed to vanish into the grey. Reino Salminen stood on the dock, his hands raw from the cold, watching the auctioneer close lot after lot with a hammer that struck the wood with the finality of a coffin nail. He was thirty-two, a junior archivist for the parish...
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