The Distant Summer
The silence in the stone chamber was not empty but heavy, a physical weight that pressed against the eardrums and settled in the marrow, a thick, grey fog that obscured the boundaries between self and stone. Thomas Bradshaw sat in the center of the room, his back against the cold, damp wall, his hands resting on his knees, fingers interlaced so tightly the knuckles had turned the color of old...
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