The Distant Summer
The iron key lay on the kitchen table, cold and heavy as a stone from a well, and Thomas Whitmore stared at it until the metal seemed to bleed into the grain of the oak. It was a simple object, unadorned, with a bow shaped like a heart that had long since lost its romantic connotation, reduced now to a blunt, functional loop. In the dim light of the medieval cottage, where the wind rattled the...
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