The Wistful Grid
The letter was dated October the fourteenth, 1892. It smelled of damp wool and the metallic tang of the river. Margaret held the envelope in her left hand, her right hand trembling against the rough wood of the kitchen table. Outside, the fog rolled off the Thames like a gray shroud, swallowing the gaslights one by one. The house was silent. Too silent. The clock on the mantel ticked, a sharp,...
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