The Distant Whispers
The grant application form, Form 7-B, sat on the kitchen table, the paper yellowing at the edges where Elias’s thumb had pressed it against the wood. He held the pen, the ink drying in the nib, and stared at the line for *Estimated Maintenance Costs*, the number a lie he had not yet had the courage to correct. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the loose windowpane of the St. Jude’s Chapel,...
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