The The Epistolary Fragment of Emerald Cove 9
Arthur Glenwood looked at the horizon, where the Long Island Sound met the gray sky. The precision of Emerald Cove was a suffocating blanket, a velvet trap lined with the finest silk. He remembered Martha, the way she used to laugh at the absurdity of corporate mergers, and how that laughter had become the only sound in his empty house. Now, the silence here was different. It was a curated...
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