The Wistful Mirror
The letter lay on the kitchen table, the ink still sharp against the cheap bond paper. It was from the county assessor’s office, dated three days prior, and it did not ask for an opinion; it demanded a structural audit before the freeze set in. Evelyn Harkness picked it up, her fingers brushing the dry, fibrous surface. She was forty-two, and the house around her was rotting faster than she...
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