The Distant Ghost
The house was dying, and I was the only one left to count the cracks in the plaster. It stood on the hill above the valley of the River Ouse, a sprawling, ivy-choked monument to a family name that had once meant something, now just a stain on the landscape. My father sat in the armchair by the dead fire, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the window, beyond the gray November sky, beyond...
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