The Faded Guest
The house burns. It does not smolder. It does not whisper. It roars. Orange tongues lick the eaves, chewing through the wood, the paper, the life. You stand on the porch. The heat hits you like a wall. You cannot move. Your feet are rooted to the concrete. You watch the flames take the kitchen window. Then the living room. Then the nursery where she sleeps. Or where she used to sleep. You are a...
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