The Wistful Letter
"You wrote it again," Thomas said. His voice was flat, stripped of inflection. He stood in the doorway of the study, a silhouette against the grey light of the winter afternoon. He did not enter. He simply held the envelope. It was thick, cream-colored, heavy with the promise of ink. I looked up from my desk. The pen in my hand was still wet. "It is necessary," I replied. I did not look at the...
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