The Wistful Show
The letter lay on the desk, the paper thin and yellowed by the damp. It was a notice of termination, effective immediately, for failure to account for the East Wing ledger. I read it twice, the ink smudging slightly under my thumb. Outside, the asylum grounds were dark, the only light coming from the sodium lamps that hummed like dying wasps. I was forty-two years old, and I owed the bank three...
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