The Distant Summer
The champagne was warm, and the room was thick with the smell of roasted goose and expensive tobacco. I was twenty-two, standing in the center of the dining room, my father’s wedding ring on my pinky finger, the gold heavy and cold against the skin. My father sat in the armchair by the fire, his face a pale mask stretched over hollow bones, his breath a wet, rattling sound that cut through the...
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