The Distant Metropolis
The wine was red and thick, pooling in the folds of the tablecloth like a wound that refused to clot, and your hand, steady from twenty years of holding a rifle, trembled as you reached for the bottle. Your sister, Margaret, sat across from you in the dining room of the old Victorian house you had bought last spring, her eyes fixed on the stain spreading across the white linen. The house...
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