The Wistful Letter
The letter lay on the desk, the ink still wet, the paper trembling slightly under the weight of Elias Thorne’s finger. He had written only three lines, but they felt heavy as lead, each word a brick in a wall he was building around his own sanity. Outside, the wind tore at the eaves of the mill, a sound like tearing canvas, and the soot-stained glass of the window reflected a face that did not...
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