The Grave-Kneeler of Magnolia
The heat in Mississippi didn't just sit on you—it pressed down, heavy and wet and suffocating, like the sky itself had decided to sit on your chest and keep you there until you stopped breathing. Silas McGuire had learned to breathe around it, the way you learned to breathe around pain, around loss, around the things that didn't have names but had weight all the same. He was twenty-six years...
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