The Distant Affair
The air in the valley of Saint Jude did not smell of earth or rain, but of ozone and old copper, a metallic tang that coated the back of the throat and settled into the lungs like a fine, inescapable silt. It was a place that existed in the crease between two moments, a fold in the fabric of time where the geometry of the medieval world had been twisted into something unrecognizable, something...
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