The Wistful Silence
The letter lay on the kitchen table, its ink dry and black as a bruise. Arthur Vane weighed it in his hand, feeling the slight, papery drag of it, a weight that seemed to pull at the bones of his wrist. It was the final notice from the Maritime Commission, revoking his pension, stripping him of the title he had held for thirty-four years. He counted the days since the last storm, twelve,...
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