The Distant Summer
The cellar was cool and smelled of damp earth and the sharp, green tang of crushed apples. Thomas stood alone in the gloom, his fingers tracing the rough bark of the oldest apple tree that grew not in the yard, but through the very foundation of the house, its roots tangled with the stones like veins beneath skin. He was twelve years old, though he often felt older, weighed down by a gravity...
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