The Distant Joke
The letter lay on the table like a small, white wound in the grain of the oak. It was not sealed, nor was it signed, only a single sheet of heavy cream paper bearing three lines of text in a hand that had once been steady but now trembled with the weight of decades. Thomas Bradshaw sat across from it, his hands folded in his lap, the skin paper-thin over knuckles that had once broken through...
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