The Distant Clue
The ink is black, but the paper is the color of old bone, and you are holding it with a grip that has forgotten how to release. It is a letter, or perhaps a fragment of one, written in a hand so cramped and urgent that the letters seem to be struggling to escape the line. You do not know who wrote it. You do not know who it was for. You only know that it is in your hands, and that the words,...
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