Dear Wigleaf, Grandma isn't home. Her smell isn't, either. She wrote long letters I couldn't read. I still can't make out her cursive. It pressed past margins and curved against pages. I twisted I'm so proud into I'm so prowl and folded up my answers. Grandma— The sea Grandma— I see Grandma— You see, your sea has left me orphaned. - - -
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