The Distant Affair

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2026-08-17 19:10:24 -

The rain in Oakhaven does not wash; it clings. It soaks into the wool of your coat and the very marrow of your bones, a cold that feels less like weather and more like a judgment. You are twelve years old, or perhaps thirteen. Time in the lower quarters is a broken clock, ticking unevenly, and you count the days not by the calendar but by the weight of the bread in your satchel. Today it is...

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