The Pale Letter
The jar sat on the desk. It was a mason jar, thick-glass and stained with the residue of a decade of pickled beets. Inside, the liquid had turned a dark, bruised purple. It smelled of vinegar and rot. I stared at it. The office was silent. The radiator ticked. A cold draft slipped under the door, carrying the scent of damp wool from the hallway. I am a scholar of the mundane. That is how I...
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