The Distant Clue
The wind was in the chimney, or perhaps the chimney was in the wind, but the paper did not move. "Clara," I said to the empty room, my voice sounding thin and brittle against the stone walls. "The ink is wet. Three days after the funeral. Who wrote this?" The draft stirred, a cold current that slipped under the door and curled around my ankles. It was not a gust. It was a pull, steady and...
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