The Pale Letter
The cassette tape was heavier than it looked, a small black rectangle that felt like a stone in my palm. I held it up to the light, watching the dust motes swirl around the plastic shell, and I knew with a cold, technical certainty that this was the only thing left of her. My mother, Elena, had been in a coma for three years, her body a silent tenant in a hospital room in Zurich, but her voice...
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