The Faded Shield
The letter lies on the table, the paper yellowed and soft at the edges from five years of being folded and unfolded. It is addressed to Clara, though she has been dead since the winter of 2019. You sign it. The ink is blue, cheap, the kind that bleeds if you press too hard. Outside, the wind is picking up, rattling the window frame of your apartment in the old district. You are thirty-two. You...
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