The Faded Frequency
The letter was dated three days before the fire, though the ink had begun to bleed into the heavy cotton paper, softening the edges of the words like smoke rising from a dead hearth. You read it again in the quiet of the house, the one that was no longer yours, the one that had been condemned by the county assessor two weeks prior. The air smelled of wet plaster and the metallic tang of old...
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