The Distant Summer
The house was already dead before you arrived, but it did not know it yet. It stood on the hill above the village of Oakhaven, a sprawling, timbered thing with a roof like a broken wing, waiting for the fire that the Council of Elders had promised to send. You had spent forty years in the cellar, learning the language of rot and stone. Your grandmother, before the Council took her, had taught...
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