The Faded Frequency
The letter was written in the hand of a man who no longer existed. Thomas Whitmore sat at the edge of the bed in the small stone cottage on the hill, the ink still wet, the pen trembling in his fingers. He was an old man. His hands were maps of veins and scars. He looked at the page. He looked at his hands. He did not know who he was writing to. He knew only that he had to say it. The village...
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