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Writing

Book Post

The lighthouse keeper’s wife struggled the box up from the dock with snarled relief. It was heavy and awkward, and she still ached from before.

Although it was hard to be disciplined she made the parcels last. Slitting each one along the seams with a new paper knife.

The blade was a flint-scraped bone. Sharp. Keen. She didn’t think of him now, though he’d made delicious stew.

Book post was the more essential mail.