The Distant Summer
The dream began, as it always did, with the sensation of wet wool clinging to Elias Thorne’s left knee, a heavy, sodden weight that seemed to anchor his soul to the earth even as his body lay suspended in the airless dark of his narrow bed. He was not in his house in the quiet, rain-slicked suburbs of Ohio, where the clocks ticked with a metronomic insistence and the wallpaper peeled in slow,...
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