The Distant Affair
The watchman at the iron gate of the Ashworth estate did not know that his hands, those rough and calloused instruments of my daily labor, were the very things that would eventually be severed from my life, not by a blade, but by the slow, grinding erosion of trust that had seeped into the marrow of our shared history like damp into old stone, and as he raised his lantern to the high,...
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