The Distant Summer
The air in the cellar of the Whitmore estate hung thick, not merely with the damp chill of the earth, but with the sweet, cloying rot of apples left too long in the crates. It was a taste that coated the back of the throat, a metallic tang that spoke of decay and time’s indifferent passage. Thomas Bradshaw stood in the center of this subterranean vault, his uniform pressed and immaculate, a...
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