The Faded Root
The letter is dated October the fourteenth, and the ink is still wet on the page as I press the pen into the paper, the scratch of the nib sounding unnaturally loud in the silence of the visiting room. I am writing to you, Margaret, because you are the only one who knew that I was not built for this kind of quiet, this sterile, lavender-scented purgatory. I have come to see Clara, to beg the...
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