Threads of Fate
Threads of Fate I first noticed it in September, when the Irish rain began and my brother grew strange. Declan had always been intense—the kind of young man who read Baudelaire at parties and quoted Mallarme at dinners and looked at women the way a starving man looks at bread. But in September, something changed. He began talking about threads. "Siobhan," he said one evening, sitting in our...
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