The Pale Letter
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, though it had been waiting for months. It lay on the desk like a dead bird, white and still. Arthur sat in the dark of the library. The storm outside battered the windows with a rhythmic, violent insistence. He did not move. The paper was pale, almost translucent. It was not addressed to him. It was not addressed to anyone. Yet he knew it was for him. He had...
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