The Faded Chronicle
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the slate roof of the magistrate’s house, a relentless, hollow sound that seemed to come from inside the walls themselves. I sat in the parlor, my hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had gone cold, watching the widow, Mrs. Halloway, pick at a loose thread on her shawl. She did not look at me. Her eyes were fixed on the floorboards,...
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