The Distant Threshold
You live in the house that breathes. It is not a metaphor. You know this because you have watched the plaster expand and contract with the seasons, a slow, rhythmic pulse that matches the wind outside. The walls are thick. They are made of a stone that does not appear on any map of the county. It is grey, soft to the touch, and warm, even in the deep freeze of January. You have lived here for...
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