The Wistful Silence
"You are holding it wrong," Elias said, his voice low and steady as the hum of the old gas lamps flickering outside the window. "You are gripping the letter like it owes you money. Let it go. The ink is dry. The truth is set." Margaret looked down at the envelope in her hands. It was thick, cream-colored, heavy with the weight of three days’ silence. Her fingers, stained yellow at the tips from...
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