The Pale Letter
The frost on the windowpane had formed a delicate, fern-like pattern, a cage of ice that held the morning light in suspension. Thomas sat at the kitchen table, his fingers wrapped around a mug of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago. The house was too quiet. It was a modern build, sleek and efficient, the kind of architecture that minimized wasted space and, consequently, wasted feeling. But...
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