The Distant Summer
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, tucked inside the hollow of a hollowed-out apple that had been preserved in syrup for decades. It was not the apple that caught Eleanor’s eye, but the ink, which had faded to the color of dried blood, and the signature, which was her own. She stood in the kitchen of the house she had bought with the last of her savings, the windows open to the relentless, humid...
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