The Faded Portrait
The letter sat on the desk. It was thin, cream-colored, and smelled of dust and old paper. You did not open it. You knew what it said. You had known for three days. You sat in the chair, the leather creaking under your weight, and watched the dust motes dance in the shaft of light cutting through the window. Outside, the city roared. Inside, silence. The silence was heavy. It pressed against...
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