The Distant Blade
The red wax seal on the grant proposal was still warm from the heating vent, a sticky, arterial smear against the crisp white paper. I pressed my thumb into the wax, feeling the slight tackiness of it, a small, tactile anchor in a room that had grown increasingly hollow since Margaret died three years ago. The proposal was for the preservation of the Thorne-Vane manuscripts, a collection of...
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