The Faded Frontier
The clock on the mantel had struck four, the sound a dry crack like a knuckle popping in an empty room. I sat on the edge of the bed, counting the hours until Friday, twelve days of rotting silence since the diagnosis, and the weight of the deed in my pocket felt heavier than the iron door of the cellar. My hands were stained black, the soil of the estate clinging to the whorls of my...
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