The Pale Tower
"You are holding the weight of the world in your left hand, Eleanor, and you are letting it rot." My mother’s voice did not carry the warmth of the hearth or the softness of the linen curtains that hung in the parlor, but instead it cut through the stagnant air of our cramped, drafty apartment on the seventh floor like a blade of ice, sharp and precise and utterly devoid of pity. I stood by the...
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