The Distant Crown
"Did you lock the door, Clara?" I didn’t turn around. My back was pressed against the cold glass of the window, watching the rain blur the streetlights into long, weeping streaks of amber. The apartment was small. It was always small. In London, the rooms had been this size, too, but there the walls felt like a hug. Here, in this cramped flat in Chicago, they felt like a cage. The air smelled...
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