The Wistful Saga
The ink is still wet on the date, October 14, 1943, and my hand trembles not from the cold that has settled into the joints of my fingers, but from the vibration that has been living in my molars for three days, a low, sub-audible thrum that seems to originate from the plasterwork of the office ceiling and settle into the bone of my skull. I am thirty-four years old, a widow of two years, and I...
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