The Distant Affair

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 21:41:06 -

The house did not smell of rot, but of damp wool and old iron, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bad penny. Margaret Ashworth sat by the window, her fingers tracing the rough grain of the oak frame, feeling the cold seep into her joints. Outside, the rain lashed the garden, turning the mud into a slick, dark mirror that reflected nothing but the grey sky. She was a woman of...

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