The Faded Photograph
The photograph sat on the mantelpiece like an accusation, its edges frayed to the consistency of old lace, its surface clouded with the milky bloom of silver nitrate going senile. Eleanor had found it tucked behind a loose brick in the fireplace of the Clerkenwell bookshop she'd inherited from Catherine Moreau, a woman who had died at ninety-one and left behind three thousand volumes and one...
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