The Distant Nightmare
The letter lay on the cold stone floor, its edges soft and worn from being turned over and over in Arthur’s damp fingers. It was a simple piece of paper, beige and thin, bearing the official seal of the St. Jude’s Sanatorium in the top left corner, the ink slightly blurred where it had been stamped. Arthur, a forty-year-old man with the hollowed cheeks of someone who had forgotten how to chew...
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