The Wistful Silence
We were young then, my brother Julian and I, living in the high, damp stones of our ancestral home where the air always tasted of wet wool and old candle wax, and I remember the way the light fell through the stained glass windows in long, fractured ribbons that seemed to cut the very air into pieces of colored glass, and I thought, in that particular way that children think when they are...
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