The Wistful Letter
The pen scraped against the paper with a sound like dry leaves skittering over gravel, and Dr. Elias Thorne’s hand trembled, not from the cold that seeped through the thin wool of his nightshirt, but from the effort of holding the nib steady. He was forty years old, a botanist by trade and a prisoner by circumstance, confined to the shadowed wing of Ashwood Sanatorium where the air tasted of...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews