The Wistful Letter
The hammer struck the glass, and the sound was a wet, sharp crack that cut through the hum of the printing press. I wiped the ink from my fingers, the black dye staining the whorls of my skin, and looked at the shattered remains of the bottle on the floor. It was a cheap thing, a bottle of vermouth I had bought for the night, but the way it broke felt personal, as if the glass had decided to...
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