The Wistful Letter
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the paper crisp and white against the cluttered desk, the ink a faded violet that seemed to bleed into the fiber with a slow, deliberate malice. You read it three times, your fingers trembling not from the cold of the November air but from the dissonance of the words, which claimed Arthur was too ill to sign the deed transfer, yet the postmark dated it only...
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