The stone had a voice, and Margaret had spent twenty-three years pretending she could not hear it.
It lived at the edge of the village, where the New England cliff dropped into the grey Atlantic. The locals called it the Singing Stone—a massive slab of granite, dark as a bruise, standing upright in the earth like a tombstone that had forgotten whose it was. On certain nights, when the wind came off the water with the right violence, the stone hummed. A low note, barely audible, like a woman...
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