The Wistful Asylum
The telegram arrived on a Tuesday, the paper brittle as dried reed, the ink smudged by the damp that seeped through the telegraph office walls. Désir LaFleur held the slip in his left hand, the one that still trembled from the cold of the butcher’s cold room, and read the words twice. ELARA CRITICAL. COME HOME. He did not look up. He was thirty-two, a concierge at the Grand Hotel during the war...
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