The Distant Affair
The dream began, as it did every night now, in the blue hour before dawn, when the air in the attic was thick with the scent of dust and old wool, and Margaret stood before a glass case that contained nothing but a single, frayed glove, its leather skin cracked and darkened by time, a small brown stain on the thumb that looked, in the flickering light, exactly like a drop of dried blood. She...
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