The Distant Affair
The steam from the ironing board curls up like a ghost trying to find its way back into a body that has already left the room, and you stand there, the heavy weight of the metal in your hand, feeling the heat seep into your palms, a warmth that feels less like comfort and more like a slow, inevitable burning. It is the year 1912, or perhaps it is the year 1899, time has become a viscous fluid...
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