The Corner Shop
Patrick O'Brien was sleeping in the shop. Sean pushed the door open and the bell above it jangled—a sound so familiar it might as well have been silence. The shop smelled of old wood and dust and the faint sweet tang of willow strips drying on the rack by the window. Patrick was in his usual chair, the one with the spring poking through the upholstery, his mouth open, his breathing slow and...
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