The Distant Clue
The telegram arrived on a Tuesday, the paper yellowed and brittle as the autumn leaves that had begun to fall against the window of my office. It stated, in the clipped, impersonal language of the state, that my son Thomas had died in the line of duty. I read the words three times, my eyes failing to connect the name with the man who had sat at my kitchen table just weeks ago, complaining of a...
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