The Pale Tower
The house did not burn; it exhaled. That is how you remember it, not with the roar of wind or the crackle of timber, but with a slow, suffocating sigh that swallowed the morning air and left behind only the scent of wet ash and dried lavender. You were twelve years old when the fire took the east wing, the room where your father kept his ledgers and his silence, and the room where you kept your...
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