The Distant Summer
The rain against the windowpane was a rhythmic, wet percussion, a sound that Elara Whitmore had long since stopped hearing to listen to the silence of the library. She sat in the high-backed leather chair, the one that smelled of old tobacco and varnish, staring at the cracked mirror on the wall. In the glass, her reflection was fragmented by the jagged lines of the fissure. A scholar of...
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