The Distant Affair
The roof of the glasshouse collapsed at 4:12 on a Tuesday morning, shattering into a million jagged teeth that sang in the humid air before they buried themselves in the loam. I was not inside. I was standing in the muddy lane just outside the iron gates, watching the structure I had spent three years building fold in on itself like a dying lung, exhaling its final, green breath. The sound was...
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