The Golden Circuit
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, tucked inside the hollow of a dried rosebush that had once bloomed with a ferocity so violent it had stained the soil with a bruised, arterial purple. Margaret Holloway found it there, nestled in the roots of the earth, the paper yellowed and brittle as old skin, the ink a faded iron-gall brown that seemed to bleed into the fibers of the page as she held it up...
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