The Distant Joke
The willow tree in the courtyard did not sway. It stood rigid, its branches heavy with a silence that felt less like stillness and more like a held breath. Margot Whitmore sat at her desk, the surface scarred by the indentations of a thousand previous pens. She was a woman of mid-years, her face mapped with the fine lines of a life spent looking slightly away. Her job was simple. She sorted the...
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