Penny Fleck

The letters write themselves when the coughing fits let up—three pages of vellum, two dabs of rosewater, and a touch of red sealing wax. They’re for my boy. Arthur. Did I tell you his laugh could charm the very birds from the sky? Thomas Wayne promised to build a palace for us in his estate’s east wing. We’ll have parquet floors. Crystal chandeliers. None of this damp wallpaper peeling at the corners. I’ve always said filth is just elegance’s shadow, dear. It’s the stories that keep us whole.