The Golden Mirror
The ledger in my desk had twelve columns, each one a month of the year, and I had spent the last three hours counting the coins in Clara’s small iron box, weighing them against the silence that had settled into the house like silt in a stagnant pond. It was the winter of 1893, and the frost had crept up the windowpanes of the parlor where my daughter had died, her breath still seeming to cling...
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