The Distant Affair
The house smells of damp wool and the faint, sweet rot of apples that have been left too long in the cellar, a scent that clings to the back of your throat and settles into the creases of your skin, reminding you that time is not a line but a spiral that tightens until it breaks, and you are standing in the hallway with your shoes off, watching the dust motes dance in the single shaft of...
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