The Pale Letter
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was wrong, for the postman did not come on Tuesdays, and Thomas Bradshaw was forty years old, a scribe of no particular renown, and broke enough that he could not afford the luxury of confusion. He held the parchment in his trembling hands, the ink wet and smelling of turned earth, the script unmistakable. It was his brother, Julian. Julian had been dead...
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