The Distant Machine
The letter lay on the table. It was thin. It was cold. Eleanor stared at it. The paper smelled of damp earth. It smelled of decay. She picked it up. Her hand shook. It was a letter from her sister, Clara. Clara was dead. Clara had been dead for three years. Eleanor read the first line. I am still here. She laughed. The sound was dry. It cracked in the air. She was alone. The house was silent....
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