The Faded River
The argument is already hot when you walk into the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of burnt toast and the metallic tang of old resentment, and you stand there for a moment, a ghost in your own home, watching Margaret Holloway raise her hand to strike the table with a teacup, her face a map of lines that have deepened since the war, since the children left, since you stopped speaking to...
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