The Distant Summer
The ceramic teapot had been in the Whitmore family for three generations, a heavy, glazed vessel of deep indigo that held the weight of history in its handle. It sat on the counter of the modern, sterile kitchen, a relic of a time that Eleanor Whitmore felt was rapidly dissolving into the gray mist of her current existence. She was forty-two, and her body had begun to betray her with a quiet,...
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