The Distant Affair
The ice in the well has become a mirror that does not reflect your face, but the sky above it, a pale and bruised expanse of twilight that refuses to darken. You stand at the edge of the stone rim, your fingers white-knuckled against the cold, rough masonry, holding a shard of that frozen clarity in your palm. It is a jagged thing, a piece of the world’s surface torn away from its context, and...
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