The Dust of Honor
The air in the Delta was a thick, suffocating soup of humidity and decay. I can still smell it—the scent of rotting magnolias and the slow, wet collapse of a world that had forgotten how to breathe. I live in the skeleton of the Blackwood Estate, a house that is more ghost than wood, where the wallpaper peels like dead skin. They call me a vagrant. The people in town, the ones who still cling...
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