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There's a barn here where all the words live, and we make stories of them for people.
"Mister," the letter said to me, "my husband's always loved words. Age is taking him, and he can't tell the stories that he hears inside. Is there a tale I can give to thank him for all the places his words have taken me?"
I sat on the floor of the barn. Instead of calling the words, I read them the letter. They heard me out, and I listened to them rustle-shuffle as they will when they see the path. When all was quiet again, I took the ones who'd volunteered and put them in a box, last at the bottom and first at the top, to be unfolded as a gift to a man loved by a woman.
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