The Wistful Letter
The steam from the ironing board curled like a phantom limb in the cold air of the kitchen. Eleanor sat at the table, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold, watching the condensation bead on the windowpane. Outside, the industrial district of Oakhaven groaned under the weight of another smog-choked Tuesday. The factory whistles had blown at dawn, a low, mournful...
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