The Wistful Silence
The letter lay on the desk, its edges curling slightly in the dry, recycled air of the archive, and I read it three times before I could bring myself to sign the rejection form, my hand hovering over the pen like a bird uncertain of the branch. It was a request for medical leave, standard and mundane, but the words "tremor" and "involuntary" felt like accusations in this place where the record...
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