The land was sinking. Julian Morrison knew this the way he knew his own name — not through measurement or data, but through the slow, accumulating evidence of things that had been right and were no...
The porch sagged at a thirteen-degree angle. The cypress trees at the edge of the bayou were drowning — their roots submerged, their trunks rotting from the waterline down, their Spanish moss hanging like funeral veils from branches that had not borne leaves in three years. The mansion itself, a crumbling antebellum estate that had once been the pride of the Morrison dynasty, leaned into the...
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