The Distant Summer
The rain against the glass was not a sound but a pressure, a low, constant hum that vibrated in the teeth of Margaret Holloway. She sat in the office of the Ashworth Sanatorium, the walls painted a sterile, institutional white that seemed to absorb the light from the gas lamps and hold it captive. The year was 1892, though the specific date felt less like a point in time and more like a loop, a...
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