The Distant Journey
The mirror in the hallway of the suburban house on Maple Avenue did not reflect the room, but rather a vast, silent expanse of gray water, and it was into this aqueous void that Margaret Holloway looked each morning as she fastened the single, iridescent brooch to the lapel of her wool coat, a gesture that felt less like adornment and more like a ritualistic binding of her own flesh to the...
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