The Wistful Saga
Dorothy Sturgis, forty-two, was the only person in the border park who heard the pipes sing before the solstice. It started as a low thrum in the water lines of the reclamation yard, a vibration that settled into my molars and made the fillings ache with a dull, persistent pressure. I held the ceramic bowl, my sister’s last possession, its rim cracked where I had dropped it three winters ago....
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