The House at River Road
The magnolias were blooming on the porch when I arrived, which meant it was late April and the humidity had already begun its slow, suffocating climb toward summer. I stood at the gate of the Faulkner estate and looked up at the house: two stories of peeling white paint, a wraparound porch held up by columns that were rotting from the inside out, and a yard choked with kudzu that looked like...
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