The Faded Photograph
The envelope was warm to the touch, a strange, dry heat that seemed to radiate from the paper itself despite the November chill seeping through the office windows. Elias Thorne held it between his thumb and forefinger, his knuckles white, the grease from the mailroom still caked under his nails. He was thirty-four years old, a postal inspector for the rural district of Ohio, and he had come to...
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