The Faded Photograph
"Is it still there?" I looked at the photograph in my hand. The image of Clara, my wife, was sharp as a blade. Her face was pale, her eyes dark and unblinking, the details of her skin rendered with a clarity that should have been impossible after three years of sun and damp. I had held it up to the window of my cottage, the one with the cracked pane that let in the winter wind, and the light...
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