The Faded Quadrant
The fire started in the attic, a dry, snapping thing that ate the rafters before it ever touched the roof, and I stood in the kitchen with a glass of cold water in my hand, watching the smoke curl down through the floorboards like a black, serpentine tongue tasting the air. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; time had become a fluid, unreliable substance in the village of Oakhaven,...
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