The House That Consumed Itself
The first room to go was my father's study. Not destroyed. Not demolished. Erased. One morning I walked down the east wing corridor intending to visit it, as I did every Saturday, and found that the wall where the door had been was now a seamless expanse of brick. No trace of the doorframe. No scuff marks. No dust line to show where the door had swung. As if the room had never existed. I stood...
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