The Faded Quadrant
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the suburban street outside the Whitmore house into a slick, muddy river where the gutters choked with leaves and the air smelled of wet asphalt and the faint, metallic tang of rotting wood. Inside, the dining room was a cathedral of silence, the long table set with silver that had begun to dull in the corners, the...
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