The Wistful Saga
The rain had stopped, leaving the parking lot of St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital slick and dark under the sodium lights. I stood by the rear bumper of my sedan, watching the water drip from the wiper blades in a slow, metronomic rhythm. Inside the car, my wife, Elena, sat in the passenger seat, her hand resting on the center console as if waiting for a signal that would never come. We were...
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