The Wistful Saga
The house was dying in pieces, much like my pride had been for the last decade. I stood in the center of the foyer, holding a screwdriver that felt heavy in my hand, looking at the crack that ran from the ceiling down to the skirting board. It was a jagged, ugly thing, a fracture in the plaster that looked less like damage and more like a scream frozen in time. I was a man who built things. I...
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