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Weekly Contest #359
By eleven forty-three, Ruth had locked every door in her mother’s house except one. The front door waited at the end of the hall, swollen in its frame from years of wet springs and dry winters, its brass knob gone dull beneath the touch of hands that were either dead or no longer welcome. On the floor before it, Ruth had placed her offering: a cracked pink hairbrush, its bristles still tangled with her mother’s gray hair. Outside, rain struck the windows and ran down the glass in crooked lines. Inside, the house was quiet. Ruth sat in the st...
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