The Distant Promise
The ivy in the garden of Blackwood Manor had not been trimmed in three years. It climbed the east wall with a slow, relentless hunger, its leaves dark and waxy in the perpetual twilight of the valley. I watched it from the window of the library, my reflection ghosting over the glass, a pale shape trapped behind the panes. The air inside was thick with the scent of old paper and damp wool, a...
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