The Distant Ghost
The silver cufflinks sat in my palm, cold and heavy as river stones. They were my father’s, polished until they mirrored the dim light of the kitchen, and I held them tight against the wool of my sleeve as if my grip could stop the door from closing. He stood in the doorway, his coat buttoned to the chin, looking at me with a face that had forgotten how to soften. "Elias," he said, his voice...
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