The Distant Affair
The soup had been boiling for three hours, a thick, opaque broth of onions and bone marrow that filled the small, drafty kitchen with a smell so heavy and cloying it seemed to possess a physical weight, pressing against the inside of Eleanor’s skull as she stood at the stove, her hands trembling not from the cold that had seeped through the single-pane windows of the asylum’s infirmary, but...
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