The Wistful Letter
The lock is warm, Elias. You know it’s warm. Don’t touch it again, not tonight. I am writing this down because my hands will not stop shaking, and because the ink is the only thing in this room that behaves according to the laws of physics, which is a small comfort in a place where the air itself seems to have a pulse. It is the fourteenth of October, 1893, and I have been a Sergeant in the...
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