The Distant Wound
The air in the manor tasted of copper and stale lavender. You sat at the head of the long oak table, the surface cold against your wrists, and watched the dust motes dance in the shaft of grey light that pierced the heavy velvet curtains. Outside, the storm was breaking, but inside, the silence was a physical weight, pressing against your eardrums. Your wife, Margaret, stood by the window, her...
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