The Faded Frequency
The letter is dated November the fourth. It sits on the kitchen table, under the weight of a cold cup of tea. The steam has long since vanished. The air in the house is still, thick with the dust of old wood and the metallic tang of the storm outside. You read it again. You read it because you must. Because the words are a splinter in your mind, and you cannot pull them out. "It’s gone,...
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