The Pale Meridian
The letter from the War Department lay in my palm, the paper thin and cold as the skin of a dead man. It was dated November 14, 1912, and it stated, in a font so small it seemed designed to be missed, that my brother Thomas’s pension had been denied due to a clerical error. I sat on the edge of my bed, the wood groaning under my weight, and listened to the silence of the house. My son, Arthur,...
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