The Distant Machine
The letter was written in ink that had dried to a rust-brown stain, the edges of the paper frayed and soft as skin. It was found in the pocket of a coat that had hung on a nail in the basement for thirty years, the threadbare fabric shedding dust with every breath of the cellar wind. 1942. The date was scrawled in the corner, but the words inside spoke of a time that felt neither past nor...
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