The storm came in on a Thursday in September 1955, the kind of storm that makes the cypress trees be
The storm came in on a Thursday in September 1955, the kind of storm that makes the cypress trees bend until their roots grip the earth like desperate hands and the rain falls not in drops but in sheets, gray and relentless and smelling of wet earth and old grief. Silas Winslow stood in the doorway of Winslow Manor and watched it come, his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders hunched...
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