The Pale Mist
The letter from the county forester, dated three days prior, lay on the desk, its ink smudged where my thumb had pressed too hard, demanding a report on the oak’s condition before the solstice. I did not sign it. I did not burn it. I simply turned it over to read the blank back, a habit I had developed when the noise in the house became too loud to ignore, and then I walked to the window where...
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