The Distant Journey

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 22:04:36 -

The wound is old. It pulses. You feel it in the left hand. A dull throb. Like a clock. Ticking time. The house breathes. Dust motes dance. In the shaft of light. You are the investigator. Of your own decay. Of your own house. Margaret watches. She stands by the door. Her face is stone. Her eyes are sharp. She sees the blood. On your sleeve. A dark stain. It spreads. Like ink. In water. She does...

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