The Pale Tale
The magistrate’s signature on the demolition order was wet when I first saw it, a dark smear against the cream-colored bond paper, and I remember thinking how it looked like a bruise forming under the skin of the day. I am writing this from the cold stone floor of the cellar, though my hands are too stiff to hold the pen with any grace, and the ink blots where it should flow. It is October,...
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