The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-20 09:25:49 -

The rain tapped against the glass. It was a steady, gray rhythm. Margaret stood by the window. She held a cup of tea. The steam rose and vanished. She watched the leaves on the oak tree. They were brown. They were dry. They were falling. One by one. They drifted down to the wet earth. They lay there. They stayed there. Margaret looked at her hands. They were thin. The skin was loose. The veins...

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