The Distant Affair
14 November 1912 The silver in the parlor gleams like a wound. I am thirty-two years old, and my hands are stained with the grease of the Blackwood estate’s decay. I need three hundred pounds to keep the roof from collapsing into the damp earth below. The house whispers in the walls, a low, rhythmic thrumming that I have mistaken for wind for the last five years. It is not wind. It is hunger. I...
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