The Pale Letter
The seed packet is brown and soft, worn thin by the friction of your thumb. You hold it up to the window, where the light is gray and thin as paper. Inside, the seeds look like tiny, dark grains of sand. You want to plant them. You want the foxglove to grow before the frost comes, so you can make the tincture for your mother’s cough. But the pantry door is locked. The key is on Dr. Aris’s...
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