The Faded Photograph
Marta stood in the corridor. The floor was cold. She wore thin socks. The walls were white. They were too white. They reflected the light from the ceiling fixtures. The light hummed. It was a low sound. It sat in her teeth. She held the letter in her hand. The paper was heavy. Cream colored. It smelled of ink and old air. It was an invitation. Or perhaps a command. The words were formal. They...
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