The Distant Summer
The bell rang three times. It was not a sound that belonged to the waking world. It was bronze and cold, vibrating in the marrow of Thomas’s bones. He woke in the cellar, where the air tasted of damp stone and old yeast. His head throbbed. He did not remember falling. He remembered only the weight of the jar in his hands, the way the liquid inside had swirled like a dark, living thing. He was...
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