The Distant Clue
The house stood on the hill. It breathed. Not with wind, but with a rhythm older than the stone. Elias stood in the hall. He held the key. It was brass. Cold. Heavy. It cut into his palm. He had come to leave it. That was the plan. Sell it. Burn it. Let the rot take the rest. The cough was in his chest. A dry, rattling thing. Like leaves in a tin can. The doctor in London had said nothing. Just...
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