The Distant Crown
The door was locked. It had been locked for years. Arthur stood before it. His hand trembled. He was a man of books. He was a man of dust. The house breathed around him. A cold, wet exhale. "Who is there?" His own voice. It sounded strange. Thin. Like a wire stretched too tight. "I am here," he said. The house did not answer. It never did. Not anymore. Arthur adjusted his glasses. The lenses...
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