The Distant Journey
The iron poker, cold and heavy as a dead limb, lay across Herbert Hendricks’ lap, its head resting on the warped floorboards of his damp cottage. He held it not as a weapon, but as a counterweight, a physical anchor against the creeping, insidious chill that had seeped into the walls over the last three days. Outside, the sky was the color of a bruised plum, a dull, swollen purple that promised...
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