The Distant Summer
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray drumming against the single-pane windows of the Whitmore household that seemed to seep into the very marrow of the house, chilling the air until it tasted of damp wool and stale tea. Arthur Whitmore stood in the center of the kitchen, his hands resting on the cold edge of the oak table, watching his mother, Eleanor, move with a...
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