The Distant Summer
The sky was the color of a bruise. I woke with the taste of copper on my tongue and the memory of a door that should not have been there. We had moved into the house in Vermont three months prior, a fixer-upper that smelled of wet rot and old smoke. The landlord, a man named Silas, had warned us about the air. He spoke of it as one speaks of a sick dog. He said the house breathed. We had...
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