The Distant Blade
The frost crept into the cellar, a silent thief that turned the moisture in the air to ice. You stood before the banister, the grain of the oak dark and heavy under your gaze. It was a beautiful wood, seasoned by a century of hands, but today it felt less like a material and more like a limb. Your left hand, the one that had held Clara’s fading fingers in the hospital ward, trembled against the...
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