The Wistful Letter
Kilmara wakes not with the sun, but with the clatter of the public baths opening their heavy iron doors, a sound that ripples out through the mist-choked lanes like a stone dropped in still water. The town is a place of stone and salt, where the bog roads slump into the lake and the elders hold the water rights in their hands like wet clay. I am Padraig Brennan, constable of this parish, and I...
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