The Distant Summer
The house at the end of the gravel drive stood not so much as a residence but as a monument to silence, its white clapboards peeling like dead skin under the relentless, sun-bleached gaze of the afternoon. Elias Thorne, a man whose uniform had long since been folded away in a cedar chest but whose spine still carried the rigid architecture of command, sat in the kitchen with his back to the...
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