The Pale Letter
The fog rolled in. Thick. Grey. It smelled of sulfur and old rain. I stood on the platform. My briefcase hung heavy. Leather. Cracked. Inside, a single letter. Unopened. Pale paper. I did not read it. I knew the content. I always knew. My name is Arthur. I am a clerk. I count numbers. I balance ledgers. I am small. I am quiet. The train whistle screamed. A jagged tear in the air. We boarded....
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