The Faded Frequency
The letter lay on the kitchen table, its edges softened by years of handling, the ink faded to a ghostly violet against the yellowed paper. It was dated November 14th, three years ago, and it was written by Thomas Bradshaw to his son, Julian. "Julian," Thomas had begun, his hand trembling as he held the pen. "You ask why I am leaving. You ask if I am afraid. I am not afraid. I am tired. The...
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