The Pale Letter
You are late again, Elias, and the ink is drying in the well of your pen, but you do not look up from the desk where the pale letter lies, its surface cold to the touch despite the radiator’s dull hum, because the weight of it in your hand is heavier than the failing beat of your own heart. October 14, 1998 The municipal building smells of dust and old paper, a scent that has seeped into the...
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