The Wistful Silence
The kettle whistled, a thin, high sound that cut through the damp air of the kitchen. It was a sound I knew better than my own breathing. I had left the village of Oakhaven three years ago, but the rhythm of the steam, the clatter of the spoon against the ceramic rim, it all remained. I was standing in a house in Bristol, far from the peat bogs and the low-slung stone cottages, yet my hands...
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