The Pale Shadows
The clock on the mantel ticks. It is a wooden box. The hands are gold. They move with a slow, deliberate weight. You are standing in the parlor. The air is thick with the smell of beeswax and old dust. Your husband, Arthur, sits in the wingback chair. He does not look up. He is reading a newspaper. The ink is black. The words are small. You hold a silver tray. On the tray is a glass of water....
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