The Wistful Letter
The chandelier shattered before the clock struck midnight. It was not a sound. It was a violence. Glass rained down from the high vaulted ceiling of the Grand Hall, a cold white hail that turned the polished marble floor into a minefield. Margaret Holloway stood frozen in the center of the room, her hands raised, her eyes wide. She was wearing the gown she had saved for forty years. Silk....
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