The Wistful Crossroads
The telegram lay on the table, its edges curling in the damp air of the workroom. Margaret read it, her eyes moving over the stiff, typed words that smelled of ink and distant smoke. She did not sign for it, did not tear it up, did not weep; she simply folded it into a small square and placed it in the pocket of her apron, where it would chafe against her hip for the rest of the day. Outside,...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews