The Faded Frequency
The ink had not yet dried on the final sentence of the entry, dated November the fourteenth, when Margaret Holloway felt the first true tremor of the cold that lived not in the air of the attic but in the marrow of her right hand, the limb that had written so many confessions to a god who had long since stopped listening. It was a hand that had once moved with the fluid grace of a pianist,...
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