The Distant Ghost
The salt jar sat on the windowsill, its seal unbroken, watching the heatwave swallow the Isle of Skye. Sorcha Sempill, forty-two, had not slept since the inventory audit, her hands stained with the grey dust of the threshing floor where the clan’s labor debts were counted in grain. She wanted the silence to hold, but the air in the communal ballroom smelled of rotting meat, a phantom stench...
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