The-House-of-Forgetting-202606090251
The house smelled of magnolias and damp wood and the particular kind of decay that only exists in places where money used to be plenty and now is not. Silas Morrison stood in the front room of the House of Forgetting and let the dust settle around him like snow in a place that had forgotten how to snow. He had not been back to Mississippi in twenty years. He had left at fourteen, run away from...
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