The Distant Affair
The old house on the edge of the moor did not simply stand; it leaned, like a drunkard holding onto the invisible hand of gravity, its timber bones creaking with a dry, wooden sigh that sounded suspiciously like the breathing of a sleeping giant. Margaret Holloway knew every creak, every groan of the floorboards that shifted beneath her feet as she moved through the dimly lit halls, her fingers...
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