The Distant Affair
The fog does not clear. It thickens. You stand at the center of the rotunda, your boots silent on the wet stone. The air tastes of iron and damp wool. This is the lighthouse. Or perhaps it is not. The walls are high, curved, and unyielding. They press in, not with weight, but with presence. You are the keeper. You have always been the keeper. The light is off. You check the mechanism. The gears...
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