The Distant Threshold
The letter lay on the desk. It was yellowed. The ink had faded. Margaret looked at it. She did not open it. Her hand trembled. She pulled it closer. The paper felt brittle. It smelled of dust. And of lavender. She had found it in the attic. Three days ago. It had fallen from a loose board. It had landed in her lap. She had known immediately. It was for her. Or rather, it was from him. Edward....
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