The Remembering Water
The house on Harrow Lane had always belonged to the water, not to them. It stood at the end of a cul-de-sac that the city planners had forgotten to pave, its Victorian bones rising from the marshy ground like the ribs of something ancient that had decided to pretend it was a home. Julian Voss stood at the kitchen window on a Tuesday in late October, watching the fog roll off the estuary and...
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