The Faded Frequency
The letter was dated November 14th, though I cannot recall the year. It is always the same date in my memory, a fixed point in a spinning wheel. I am writing this from the study of the house on Blackwood Lane, the curtains drawn against a fog that has not lifted since dawn. The air inside is thick with the scent of ozone and old paper, a smell that clings to the back of the throat like a bad...
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