The Distant Affair
The iron gate did not rust, nor did it groan in the wind, for it was not made of iron, but of a silence so heavy it had calcified into metal. I stood before it, my hands trembling not from the cold, which was a dry, biting thing that settled into the marrow, but from the sheer, oppressive weight of the waiting. In the village of Oakhaven, we did not speak of the Keeper’s House. We spoke of the...
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