The Faded River
The sledgehammer broke on the third strike. I had counted the blows. One, two, three. The iron head shattered against the limestone, spraying chips of white dust into the air. I stood in the center of the east wing, my hands raw and bleeding, listening to the silence that followed. The house did not creak. It did not groan. It simply held its breath. I was forty-two years old. I was a...
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