The Pale Letter
The coal bin was empty. Elara checked the latch. It was secure. She checked the window. The glass was frosted, thick with the winter of 1893. She looked at the mirror. Her reflection was pale, drawn tight around the eyes. She held the letter in her hand. It was white. It was smooth. It was cold. Her father lay in the next room. The coughing had stopped an hour ago. The silence was worse than...
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