The Distant Journey
The deed is in the drawer, Elara. Do not let them take it." I looked at the paper, the ink faded to a brown that matched the dust on the windowsill. It was a Tuesday, the kind of dry, cold day that settles into the joints and stays there. Outside, the wind rattled the loose shutters of St. Jude’s Chapel, a sound like dry bones clicking together. I was thirty-two years old, and I had been a...
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