The Wistful Skyline
The letter lay on the kitchen table, its edges yellowed and soft from the humidity of the November air, and Clara Vane read the final line three times before she set down the pencil she had been sharpening, the graphite dust settling on her knuckles like grey snow. The deadline was the fourteenth of the month, six days hence, and if the deed to the mill was not cleared and the back taxes paid,...
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