The Faded Portrait
The letter lay on the desk, its edges curling like dry leaves in the draft. It was from the Diocese Board, dated the first of November, and it demanded the final verification of the West Wing restoration grant. I stared at the ink, but the letters swam, blurring into a grey smear that mocked my forty-two years of service to the Abbey of St. Jude. My spectacles, cracked down the left lens, sat...
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