The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-24 00:59:36 -

Ida Garrow counted the stitches in her apron pocket, a nervous habit that had worn the wool thin, while the clock on the mantel of the Mayor’s house ticked with the heavy, indifferent rhythm of a woodpecker striking a dead tree. It was the third hour, and the fever in Mrs. Halloway’s blood was a rising tide that no amount of cold compresses or prayers could hold back, and Ida’s hands, slick...

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