The Wistful Letter
The silver clasp of your sister’s brooch is cold against your thumb, a chill that has nothing to do with the November damp seeping through the warped floorboards of the library. You are writing to Inspector Halloway, the ink blotting on the heavy cream paper as you detail the third instance of the object cracking, the hairline fracture appearing only when the shadows in the corner of the room...
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