The Faded Photograph
The house was loud with the smell of boiled cabbage and the hum of voices that seemed to vibrate against the plaster walls like bees trapped in glass. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, but in the amber haze of the dining room, time had lost its rigid teeth. The table was groaning under the weight of porcelain and silver, a banquet laid out for the return of Arthur Pendelton, the son who...
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