The Distant Affair
The stone is warm. You hold it in your palm, the rough granite biting into the flesh, a weight that seems to pull the very marrow from your bones. It is not a stone, you realize, though it looks like one. It is a door. Or the key to a door. Or the grave. You do not know. You only know that you must keep it. The mist is thick here. It coils around your ankles like the legs of pale horses. The...
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