The Distant Crown
The first crack in the ceiling appeared on a Tuesday, thin as a hairline fracture in a porcelain cup. Margot saw it before the sound did, a pale gray vein branching out from the corner above her bed. She was standing on her tiptoes, holding a glass of warm milk, the condensation beading on the glass like sweat. The house was settling, the old bones of the Victorian structure groaning under the...
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