Chapter 55 · for subscribers
Thirteen strips of paper, two inches deep, the cut edge of each one a line a steady hand had drawn with scissors eleven years ago. A road, a terrace, a house number, a name, and under it the one line my mother had written fourteen times. Somebody had come up a swept path in a gale at half past two in the morning, laid them out in year order on a hearth stone like a hand of cards, and gone out of the window.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.