The Distant Cartograph
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Veterans’ Association smelled of roasted beef, spilled red wine, and the particular, cloying sweetness of lilies that had been cut too early. It was a Friday night in November, the kind of evening where the rain against the tall, arched windows sounded less like weather and more like a low, persistent hum, a frequency that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of...
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