The Golden Circuit
The ink on the page is still wet, glistening like a tear that refused to fall, and you press the nib so hard against the paper that it tears the fibers, creating a small, jagged wound in the fiber of the letter. You are writing to your father, but you are not sure if you are writing to him or to the memory of him that you have curated in the silence of this carriage. It is a cold evening in the...
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