The Distant Summer
The iron key in my pocket had grown warm again, a strange, feverish heat that seeped through the wool of my trousers and settled against my hip like a second pulse. I sat at my desk in the St. Jude’s Asylum office, the pen hovering over the budget requisition form, my hand trembling not from the November chill but from the whisper that had begun to coil around the metal object. It was a low,...
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