The Pale Letter
The paper was damp, the ink smearing slightly as I held it up to the weak light of the attic window, a single pane of glass that had not been cleaned in three years, and I realized with a cold, quiet shock that the handwriting was not the jagged, frantic scrawl of the pale notes that had haunted me since Clara left, but the neat, precise, and deeply familiar script of my own wife, who had been...
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