The Distant Clue
The dust in the attic was not dead. It swirled in the shaft of afternoon light that pierced the boarded window, dancing with a persistence that felt almost malicious. You sat on the floorboards, your knees drawn up, holding the leather-bound journal in your lap. It was warm. That was the first thing you noticed. After forty years in this house, after the years of silence and the years of...
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