The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-17 16:47:50 -

The Wistful Ashes

The glass bead necklace lay on the table. It was a thing of blue and white, strung on silk that had once been bright. Now the silk was frayed, soft with age and the oils of hands that had touched it too often. Margaret stood by the window. The rain fell in sheets against the glass. It was a cold rain. It smelled of iron and damp earth. She watched the water slide down the pane. It blurred the...

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