The Distant Summer
The iron handle of the axe was cold, slick with the November damp that had settled into the bones of the house, and I held it so tightly that the knuckles of my right hand had turned the color of old parchment. I stood in the garden of the schoolmaster’s cottage in Harrowgate, the town’s coal dust coating the windows like a fine, grey veil, and looked out at the ancient oak that had stood in...
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