The Wistful Saga
The letter lay on the kitchen table, its edges softening into the grain of the wood, a pale rectangle of paper that seemed to absorb the dim, amber light of the late afternoon as it crept across the floorboards, and Margaret stood before it, her fingers hovering in the air, trembling not with fear but with a profound, resonant vibration that she felt in the marrow of her bones, a physical hum...
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