The Faded Photograph
The envelope was thick, the paper yellowed and brittle, smelling faintly of damp stone and old ink. I held it in my left hand, the one that had been shaking since dawn, while my right hand smoothed the crease where I had folded it twice, then three times, trying to make it small enough to fit in my breast pocket. It was a note from the neighbor, the man who had once helped us hide, but he was...
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