The Wistful Skyline
In the dream that persisted with the tenacity of a stain on white linen, the house was not a house at all but a vast, hollowed-out ribcage of white plaster and exposed lath, breathing slowly in the dry, sterile air of the suburban afternoon. Eleanor sat at the kitchen table, her hands folded beneath the varnish of the laminate surface, watching the dust motes dance in the single shaft of light...
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