The Distant Promise
The letter sat on the oak desk, its seal unbroken, a small square of wax the color of dried blood. Eleanor held it in her hands, the paper cool and fragile against her palm. She did not open it. She could not. To do so would be to admit that the silence of the last three weeks was a lie, that the house was not empty, but full of a presence she had learned to ignore. The wind outside rattled the...
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