The Wistful Letter
The moth was pinned to the corkboard with a silver tack. It had been there for thirty years. Its wings were grey and brittle, the dust of a previous century settling into the crevices of its thorax. Margaret stood before it, her reflection ghosting in the darkened window behind the board. She was an old woman now, her hands trembling slightly, not from age but from the sheer weight of the...
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