The Distant Promise
The dust in the attic tastes of copper and old rain. I am writing this from the slanted roof of our mother’s house, the one you left behind, the one the town has decided to rot rather than repair. It is November, and the wind has been stripping the oak trees for three days. I need the locket, Mara. The silver one with the portrait of our mother inside. I know you have it. I know because I saw...
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