The Distant Clue
You stand in the center of the hallway, where the air hangs heavy with the scent of damp wool and the stale, sweet rot of peonies that have long since passed their prime, and you feel the weight of the years pressing against your temples like a physical hand, a slow, suffocating embrace that reminds you that time is not a river flowing past you but a tide coming in to drown you, and you know,...
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