The Wistful Letter
Could a hand be trusted to hold what it was not meant to keep? Anca Harutyunyan asked the question aloud in the cellar, where the water had already reached the third step and was lapping at the base of the iron shelf with a wet, rhythmic sound that filled the silence. She was thirty-two, a junior archivist in a department that was slowly being swallowed by the tide of a war that had ended but...
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