The Pale Shadows
The deed lay heavy in my palm, the paper soft and worn from being passed from hand to hand, a thin sheet of leather that smelled of dust and the bank manager’s stale tobacco. I looked at it, then at the row of identical brick houses stretching down the hill, their windows dark against the gray February sky of 1912, and felt the weight of it not as a possession, but as a noose waiting to be...
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