The Distant Garden
The letter lay on the desk, its weight considerable for something so thin, the paper thick and cream-colored, bearing the seal of the Ministry of Records in faded wax. You held it by the corner, as one handles a document that might be infectious, and read the date: three years after Clara’s burial. The handwriting was hers, the loops of the g’s tight and desperate, the crossbars of the t’s...
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