The Distant Whispers
In the heavy, suffocating heat of the July afternoon, the air inside the old manor house hung thick with the scent of wilting lavender and the stale, sweet rot of overripe plums that sat in a cracked porcelain bowl on the windowsill, their skins splitting under the weight of their own sugary juice, creating a sticky, dark residue that trapped the dust motes dancing in the slant of golden light....
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