The Distant Metropolis
The eighty-four of the Tannery Steps were worn smooth by generations of feet, yet my hand shook as I counted them again, a tremor that started in the wrist and climbed the elbow like a cold vine. I remember the morning the listing was to be signed, the air in the kitchen tasting of wet wool and old paper, and how the oak floorboards beneath my slippers groaned in a rhythm that matched the...
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