The Distant Wound
"Look at it, Thomas. Look at the line." The voice was thin, stretched over the hum of the ventilation ducts that ran beneath the floorboards like iron veins. I stood in the center of the living room, the space usually reserved for Sunday afternoon tea and the quiet rustle of the evening paper, now filled with the heavy, metallic scent of ozone and damp earth. The house, the Whitmore estate, had...
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