The Wistful Grid
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, tucked between a bill for heating oil and a flyer for the municipal recycling drive, its envelope unsealed, the paper inside creased by a thumb that had held it for hours, perhaps days, before it was posted, and when Marguerite opened it, the handwriting was familiar, not in the way of a lover’s script which she had long since burned in the stove of the old...
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