The Distant Nightmare

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2026-08-20 06:22:06 -

The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the single pane of glass in the library window, a relentless, hollow percussion that matched the ticking of the wall clock. Arthur Penhaligon sat in the leather chair, his hands resting on his lap, fingers pale and thin as dried twigs. He was seventy-two years old. His mind, once a cathedral of sharp angles and towering spires of...

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