The Distant Wound
The house stood at the end of the gravel drive like a bruise that refused to heal, its paint peeling in long, sickly strips that curled upward in the dry autumn wind, and Elias Thorne stood in the kitchen, staring at the wall where the wallpaper had begun to bubble and peel, exposing the rotting lath beneath, a raw and jagged wound in the skin of the room that mirrored the slow, quiet erosion...
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