The Faded Road
The house at the end of the gravel drive was not merely a residence but a monument to a specific kind of silence, a heavy, dust-moted quiet that seemed to settle over the shingles and the manicured lawns like a physical weight, pressing down on the windows and the heavy oak doors that Margaret Holloway had not opened in three years. Inside, the air was still and thick with the scent of old...
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