The Distant Summer
The ink did not bleed; it calcified, turning the delicate lace of her skin into a map of ancient, unyielding laws, and in that slow, terrible hardening of the self into a monument, Margaret Holloway understood that the prison she had built with such meticulous, loving care was not a shelter but a tomb, a place where the air itself was thick with the dust of forgotten oaths and the heavy,...
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