The Distant Summer
The vibration began in the floorboards before it reached the air, a low, tectonic hum that Clara Vane felt in her molars as she packed the last of her mother’s china. It was the first of September, 1998, and the rain had turned the gravel drive of the Victorian manor into a slurry that sucked at the tires of the moving trucks already idling outside. Clara, thirty-two and sharp-featured, tied a...
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