The Faded Frontier
You keep telling yourself that the house is listening. It is a stupid thought, a remnant of the old war, where silence was a weapon and noise was a confession. But the walls of the farmhouse in the Hudson Valley are thick, old wood, and they do have a way of holding breath. You are a major now, or at least you were, before the court-martial that didn’t happen, before the transfer to the quiet...
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