The Pale Letter
The ink blotted the page, a dark, spreading bruise that swallowed the date before I could correct it. My hand had slipped, the pen skidding across the heavy cream stock of the Chancellor’s final correspondence, and I sat there in the dim archive, listening to the hum of the ventilation system and the wet, rattling sound of my own breathing. It was October of 1998, and I was fifty-two years old,...
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