The Distant Summer

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2026-08-20 17:09:18 -

The iron gate was cold against Cillian’s palms. It was not the cold of the wind, which had died down hours ago, but a deep, metallic chill that seeped through his leather gloves and into the bone. He stood before the house, a vast, decaying thing of grey stone and moss, looming over the valley like a sleeping beast. The air smelled of wet earth and rotting leaves, a scent that had become his...

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