The Distant Wound
The heavy oak door groans in its frame, a sound like a bone cracking under the weight of years, and you stand in the center of the hall, the silence of the house pressing against your eardrums with a physical, suffocating intimacy. It is late, or perhaps early, for time has lost its rigid architecture in this place where the air hangs thick with the scent of damp earth and old paper, and you...
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