The Faded Frequency
The letter is addressed to you, Margaret, though you have not written to yourself in years. You hold the paper in your hands, the ink still wet, the smell of iron and damp earth clinging to the fibers. It is a Tuesday in November, and the fog has rolled into the valley like a gray tide, swallowing the ironworks and the distant chime of the factory bell. You are standing in the antechamber of...
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