The Distant Whispers
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a grey veil that turned the air in our house into something thick and wet, tasting of iron and old dust. I stood by the window, watching the garden where the roses had long since surrendered their heads to the frost, now just tangled black wires in the mud. It had been three years since we arrived in this damp corner of the coast, three years since the...
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