The Faded Root
The letter arrived on a Tuesday. It was thick. Cream-colored. Heavy with the smell of old paper and formaldehyde. You opened it before your tea had cooled. You knew what it said before you read the words. The ink was faded. The root of the matter was gone. You are hereby notified that the estate of Arthur Penhaligon is to be liquidated. All personal effects are to be surrendered within thirty...
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