The Distant Promise
The air in the manor smells of damp wool and old paper, a scent that has seeped into the very pores of your skin over the last three decades, binding you to the house more tightly than any chain could. You stand before the mirror in the hallway, the one with the cracked silver leaf that Eleanor used to say looked like a map of veins, and you watch your own reflection with a detachment that...
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