The Distant Clue
The house was not a home, but a vessel, and we were its cargo, drifting in a sea of dust and silence. I had lived in the west wing of the manor for three years, ever since the old master had passed and the estate had been swallowed by the bureaucratic machinery of the new regime. I was a translator, a man of words who had found his voice buried under the weight of unspoken grief. My companion,...
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