The Pale Letter
14 November 1893 My hand is shaking so badly that the ink has bled into the fibers of the paper, turning the word *mother* into a black smear. I am writing to you, Margaret, because the living have no use for me anymore, and the dead are the only ones who still answer. The room smells of wet wool and the coppery tang of fever, a smell that has settled into the wallpaper of this house until I...
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